


Games, and the People Who Play Them

by Tournevis



Series: The Dancing Suite [1]
Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: But it'll get better in later parts, Constables everywhere!, Emotional Murdoch, Established Relationship, Historically Accurate, Kidnapping, M/M, Not entirely happy ending, Period-Typical Homophobia, So many other characters!, Whump, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-26 16:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7581352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tournevis/pseuds/Tournevis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the fall of 1899. James Pendrick has been kidnapped. Can Detective William Murdoch find who took him before they both lose everything?</p><p>[Finalized version 21 July 2018]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cameo (CameoSF)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CameoSF/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Different Style of Dancing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359208) by [Cameo (CameoSF)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CameoSF/pseuds/Cameo). 



> The Dancing Suite is planned as a three part series meant as a continuation of the very engaging Dancing in the Light series by CameoSF. It's probably better to have read it before reading the following, though things should be self-explanatory regardless. I found Dancing in the Light completely delightful and inspiring. I was saddened to read at the end of the fifth instalment that CameoSF was "going to take a break from this series for a while. I need to catch up on canon and decide whether it's feasible to re-integrate this universe with the one in which James Gillies has become such an intriguing adversary." That was in 2014. I do not know if they are ever going to continue the series, but the way to go seemed completely obvious to me. So I wrote it. Here goes.
> 
> The title is a riff on _The Dicetower_ podcast's slogan.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friday
> 
>  
> 
> [Finalized version, 21 July 2018]

Detective William Murdoch sat at the worktable in his office at Station House no 4, magnifying glasses on his nose, frowning at the flecks of dirt taken from the latest murder victim’s clothes. He'd hoped re-examining the trace evidence might reveal a hitherto missed clue. Yet, the particles of dried dung, hay fibres and powdered stone were unremarkable and indistinguishable from the ground where the headless body had been found. He had to conclude what trace evidence there was had been transferred when the corpse was dropped in an laneway behind Gerrard Street near Seaton. The samples were another dead end.

The case had plagued him for the last week and drove him to distraction. The corpse's head was still missing. Dr. Julia Ogden had confirmed the man had originally died of a strychnine-induced cardiac arrest and was probably middle-aged. Little else could be known with certainty, even the time of death. The body bore no identifying marks. He had been washed and seemingly kept in cold storage for at least a week, though no ice house in the area had revealed any clues. The stomach and bowels were empty and traces of inflammation indicated the possible use of an enema shortly before death. No more than a day before having been found, the body was thawed. Before the process was complete, the man’s hands and feet were destroyed with a strong acid, confirmed by Julia as oil of vitriol. Someone had dressed the body with care. The clothing was pristine, of very high quality and no doubt expensive, though no tailor marks or tags indicated its provenance. None of the fine tailors in Toronto had recognized the silk suit, ascot, trousers or shirt as coming from their workshops. The shoes were fine, Italian-made but nondescript, and no one had ever walked in them. Furthermore, the corpse did not match any missing person in and around Toronto, nor in Montreal, Ottawa, Buffalo, Boston or New York. Constable Crabtree volunteered to inquire more broadly, but there were limits as to how many telephone calls and telegrams the station could afford.

To make matters worse, the case had made the front page of this morning’s  _ Toronto Gazette _ .

Ripping his glasses off in frustration, Murdoch looked up in time to see James Pendrick being ushered to his office door. This was a rare occurrence, since he avoided the station as much as possible, claiming memories of too many wrongful arrests. Dressed in his driving clothes, Pendrick must have taken his motor car to the station house. William had cycled to work from the house they shared in the early morning as was usual, and was surprised to see him in this part of Toronto today. He headed directly to the Detective’s office, holding a garment bag.

"Still plagued by Ichabod, I see." James had been referring to the case as such for three days now, and it was starting to grate.

"Don’t make fun of the dead, please. This is murder."

"I apologize. I don’t want to make light of this. It just so happens I’m in an irrepressibly good mood." He hanged the garment bag on the nearby coat tree, smiling broadly. "You forgot to take these this morning. You'll need to change into proper attire for tonight." Murdoch was about to object that he planned to change at home, but Pendrick continued. "Or do I have to remind you that we, and the good Doctor Ogden, are dining out tonight? I'll be reserving a table at Le Petit Paris’s dining room as soon as they start taking calls. You need to be properly dressed."  


"Looking forward to it." It was the truth, but Murdoch felt ambivalence. He'd still have preferred to celebrate at home. Formal evening wear made him terribly uneasy. And Pendrick knew it. After almost three years of borrowing from his lover's vast wardrobe, the latter had finally convinced the detective he needed his own full-dress suits. The clothes fit him wonderfully, and James obviously loved to undress him when he wore them. Still, he missed the secret intimacy of wearing James's fineries, though he would never admit it. When Pendrick made no move to leave, he added: "Should you not be on your way to your solicitor?"  


William knew his partner was to meet with his lawyer at ten-thirty to file a patent related to an automatic light-signal system he had developed for motor cars. With the flick of a button, a driver could turn on a sign installed above the car boot, flashing the words STOP in red, RIGHT or LEFT in green. It was quite ingenuous and would no doubt prevent accidents.  


"Yes, but one more thing. I’m in such a good mood, I decided to share this with you. Since last Monday, I have been getting missives from a secret admirer."  


It was time for Murdoch to smirk. "An admirer, you say? How unusual!" Pendrick handed his lover five opened velum envelopes, keeping one in hand. Each contained a white deckled-edge note card with machine-typed amorous words, all unsigned. The Detective was no stranger to the misguided adoration of those who followed his exploits in the newspapers. Although rather embarrassing, they were harmless and dismissible, save perhaps for that one marriage proposal received last year, about which Pendrick was still joking. To his knowledge, the latter had never gotten such mail before.  


"I know I promised never to hide things from you. I didn’t mentioned them because you were too immersed in your current murder mystery. And I thought them unimportant. Besides, it's not as if you share all the letters you get from your adoring public?" Murdoch grumbled, having no choice to conceed the last point. "I mean, ’ _ You have the most beautiful eyes, but they pale compared to your brilliance. _ ’ Obviously this woman is correct, but that is not why I’m bringing the letters to you now. I thought you might like the distraction."

The quick flash of worry in Pendrick’s eyes belied his jovial tone and set Murdoch on edge. To anyone else, it would seem the man was making light of the situation. Murdoch knew better; his partner was uneasy. "What does it say?"  


Pendrick handed him the last envelope. Like the others, it was postmarked in Toronto. It contained an identical note card on which someone had machine-typed, ' _ Your eyes are so beautiful. They should look at me. _ '

"I see. You are right, there is a change in tone. The first notes were simply admiring, but this one reads as more... insistent. It may still be innocuous. Just promise to show me any other notes you might get from now on, especially if the tone changes again."  


"Of course. I did bring them to your attention the moment the wording gave me pause, didn't I? Nevertheless, my friend, it's time I leave to meet my patent solicitor, then my banker. Tonight, we celebrate. I’ll be back here around seven o’clock to pick you up. Be ready."  


Pendrick was all assurance again. With a wry smile, he quickly made his way to the station-house exit, nodding salutations along the way. Murdoch had to admire how his lover displayed confidence and composure in almost every situation. This ability had served him well in business and would no doubt continue to do so. With that thought, he asked Higgins to examine the notes for fingermarks. Just in case.  


Two hour later, Higgins popped his head through the door. "Sir? About the notes, sir. I called around and they're from a stationary set available from Mr. Eaton's store. Quite common. As for the fingermarks, I only found yours and Mr. Pendrick's on the note cards themselves."  


"What of the envelopes?"  


Handing the papers back, "I found dozens, sir. The envelopes were covered with fingermarks, but all badly smeared."  


"Which is consistent with going through the post. Thank you, Higgins."

The rest of the morning was spent drafting a preliminary report on the headless body in a way that did not let his frustration transpire. Just past noon, Murdoch was called to the scene of a death on Sumach Street. The case was open and shut. A drunk and enraged husband had pushed his pregnant wife under a delivery carriage. She had died instantly and there were dozens of witnesses. The miscreant claimed his wife had been stealing his wages. If she did, no doubt it was to keep herself and her young daughter fed while he drank his fill. Such sad events were all too common at Station House no 4, whose district straddled Cabbagetown and Corktown. By mid-afternoon, Murdoch was done with the interviews; by five-thirty he’d handed in his report. No doubt, the man would hang.  The girl would likely be sent to the Sisters of St. Joseph's orphanage. The day had turned dour but he didn't want to bring James' celebrations down. There was only just enough time to open his afternoon mail before his lover returned.  


Among requests from other police departments and an invitation from the Mayor, there was another velum envelope. This time it was addressed to Murdoch himself, which was odd. Using tweezers to pull the contents, the note card bore the single typed word ' _Interesting_ '. With it was a photograph showing James and himself lounging on the terasse at the back of Pendrick House. William froze, nauseated and faint all at once. He recognized where and when it had been taken: two Sundays ago in the afternoon. The picture showed nothing compromising, but a few moments later, James had made a particularly salacious suggestion leading to fervent kissing. They had only made it as far as the music room divan before acting on their passion. The photographer must have observed them closely. And no doubt had caught them in the act. Murdoch almost swore.  


Closer inspection showed no obvious anomaly. The angle of view implied the photographer was most likely standing near the workshop Pendrick had built for his experiments, probably along the east elevation. Since neither man had noticed an intruder, Murdoch could not discount the photographer had stood inside the building itself. The workshop manager Jerold Simmons and his men never worked on Sundays, but the alarm system James had installed throughout the property should have sounded an intruder’s entrance. This was most distressing. He would need to examine the site for evidence.  


Even knowing their privacy had been violated, what worried him more was the fact this last note had been sent to him. This 'admirer' was now addressing him directly and it made the change in tone of the morning's missive sound ominous. He needed to warn James, but it was just past seven o'clock and the man should be walking into the station any minute. Murdoch picked up a chalk stick to create a timeline of the messages, to see if that would reveal any clues in the short time he had left in his office.  


From Monday to Thursday, a single note had arrived in the morning post, each lauding Pendrick's intellectual accomplishments, each with greater emphasis. Yesterday morning's note continued the trend. Yesterday afternoon's note card, that James had quoted earlier, commented on his eyes, which was the first time a physical feature was mentioned. Including the change in tone in this morning's note and the sudden change in addressee this afternoon, the admirer, whoever she was, sounded more and more possessive. The last note and picture were a warning. Since the photograph had been taken two weeks prior, he concluded the writer had known of their secret for an entire week before sending the first note. What that meant, he did not yet know.

Such were his conclusions when Julia entered his office, apologizing for her lateness. It was half past seven and she had been delayed at the City Morgue by Detective Slorach of Station House no 5. There was still no sign of Pendrick. Apologizing to Julia, he called the house, in case his lover had simply been delayed. After letting it ring longer than necessary, the operator declared the owner was obviously not at home and Murdoch should clear the line. Instead, he asked to be connected to the offices of Armour and Mickle, patent solicitors. The clerk who took the call was brusk. "I regret to say we are currently closed, sir."

"I understand. This is Detective William Murdoch from Station House no 4. Can you tell me when Mr. James Pendrick left your office this morning, please?"

"Oh, well Mr. Pendrick did not make his appointment today. He didn't even call to cancel."

Thanking the clerk before hanging up, Murdoch's heart sank. Something was very wrong. His worry must have shown because Julia closed his office doors and asked, "What happened?"  


"I'm not sure. James is late. And he missed his appointment this morning." Picking up the telephone again, he asked to be connected to the Dominion Bank, hoping someone would answer despite the hour, to no avail. Julia's eyebrows were growing more knitted by the second. As a last resort, William asked the operator for Le Petit Paris restaurant, where an accented man cooly responded they did not have a reservation for a Mr. Pendrick that night. It was now fifteen minutes to eight. "Something's happened to James. I have to tell the Inspector."

Murdoch took the photograph and all but the latest note. That one would lead to too many questions. He crossed the bullpen to Brackenreid's office, Julia in tow. The station was full; it was shift change. Constable Crabtree, who seemed to be ready to go home, jumped to follow them.

The Inspector was sorting papers on his desk like he did at the end of every day. Upon seeing the trio cross his door, he dropped everything. "What is it, Murdoch?"

William took a deep breath hoping to slow his heart. "I think something's happened to James Pendrick. He was supposed to join Julia and me here at the station about an hour ago. He missed one important appointment this morning and did not make a call he'd planned this afternoon."

"I gather this is not like him."

"Not at all, sir. And then there's this." He showed them the photograph. "This picture was taken two weeks ago and came in the afternoon post." Seeing his colleagues' confusion, he recounted what he all understood of the mysterious admirer's letters. Crabtree looked convinced, but not Brackenreid, so he continued, "Sir, I know Mr. Pendrick quite well. He would not have missed an appointment with his solicitor without cancelling and he told me he was looking forward to filing that particular patent. Something's wrong."

"Sir, you're sure he would not have had another appointment that got him waylaid somehow? Or maybe he's gone the check up on the church reconstruction in Leslieville?" George had a point, but Murdoch thought it unlikely.  


"He went to the site yesterday. He told me the foundation work was on schedule, so I see no reason he'd return today. Granted, I'm not privy to all of Mr. Pendrick's schedule, but he did not mention any other business."

Brackenreid made up his mind. "All right. If you think something's not right, I believe you, but let's not assume the worse just yet. You and I should try to retrace his steps from the last time you saw him here." He snapped his fingers. "Does Pendrick keep an appointment book? It might have information you didn't know about."

Murdoch mentally rejected the idea, but wouldn't entirely discount the possibility. He fished his house key from his pocket, handing it to Crabtree. "George, James keeps his daybook on his desk in the library. Please retrieve it for me. His desk is the one with scorched marks."

"I remember, sir. I'll return as soon as I can."

As Brackenreid was grabbing his hat and walking stick, Julia asked "May I study the letters more closely, William? I know they contain only a few words, but it may still be possible to deduce some information about the sender from them."  


"Thank you Julia, that is an excellent idea. I trust your analytical skills."

They caught up with Constable Worseley just as he too was exiting the station. He'd manned the front desk that morning. The red-haired constable remembered Pendrick's entrance and departure, but had not seen where the gentleman had parked his car.

Once outside, Brackenreid turned toward the station's carriage house but Murdoch crossed the street, keeping his eyes to the ground, pointing as he walked. "When James drives me to the station, he usually turns on Wilton from Yonge Street. So he would have parked the motor car in front of the station facing east, just about here. Sadly, it looks like what tracks it might have left were erased by the carts and coaches passing through since then. Knowing him, to get to his solicitor on King, he would have taken Sackville Street." He pointed eastward and started walking, Brackenreid at his heels.  


"Hold on, Murdoch! I thought Pendrick's solicitor was on Adelaide. We met with him often enough!"

The detective didn't even slow down, simply looking back at Brackenreid. "Yes, sir. His barrister, Mr. Lamont, is on Adelaide. James' patent solicitor is on King."

Brackenreid huffed, "Figures his nibs would have an army of lawyers."

Looking into the side streets and laneways, they walked toward Sackville. The evening was falling but street lights were not yet on. It was Brackenreid who saw it first. Pendrick's motor car, recognizable for its silver accented driving signals, could be seen half on the wood sidewalk on the corner of Blair Avenue and St. David's Street. Murdoch ran to it. "It looks like he stopped the car quickly, without even trying to properly park it." Pendrick's driving gloves were on the floor near the pedals.  


"Well, now we know why he missed his appointment, right? He never went farther than around the corner!"

"Yes, sir." Murdoch's mind was racing. "Blair ends in a cul-de-sac passed Sydenham, but since the car is pointing towards St. David's, we should look this way first." It didn't take long for them to find a clue: James' driving cap sat in a mud puddle a few feet inside the first carriageway. The sight felt like a blow. A cart wheel had run over it and despite the disappearing light they could see the ground showed signs of a scuffle. "He was taken here."  


"All right, this is officially a kidnapping. Let me get some lights and constables to secure the laneway. You go back to the car to look for clues."

Murdoch couldn't move, his head was spinning. Someone had taken his lover. What should he do?  


"Murdoch!" Brackenreid's voice broke through the ringing in his ears. "We'll find him. Go do your job!" That spurred him.

While the Inspector ran to the station, he hurried back to the car. All indicated it had been on the street corner since morning. Birds had made a mess on the hood. The motor was cold. The boot was closed but empty. His shaky hands worked the magnetic lock he'd installed on the compartment under the driver seat as a birthday surprise. His lover's .22 revolver was still inside and his leather portfolio contained all the papers, patent applications and banking statements he'd have needed for his appointments. Everything here pointed to James being kidnapped minutes after he'd left the station. Kidnapped. Taken.

Footsteps down the street indicated the Inspector was back already. He was panting and red-faced, with Constables Hodge, Quentin and Hogen behind him. They reached the laneway and started cordoning what was now a crime scene. More constables arrived within minutes. Brackenreid ordered them to canvas the area. Most stores were closed for the night, but anyone still on site were to be questioned, as well as all upstairs residents. The rest would be contacted in the morning.

As the men spread around him, Murdoch was still examining the motor car, but there was nothing more to be gleaned. His thoughts were whirling. He needed to find James! Why were there no clues? As he turned to go back to the laneway, Brackenreid stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. "Come on, Murdoch! We'll take the car back to the station. Let the lads to their jobs." He reluctantly let himself be guided to the vehicle and drove it to the station's Constabulary Entrance at the back. Kidnapped! Once inside, he was guided to the Inspector's office. Taken! Murdoch sat hard on a chair and found himself holding a glass of scotch. Brackenreid sat on the desk's edge, leaned in and whispered "Get a hold of yourself, Murdoch! Or you'll end up revealing things I shouldn't know about. Come on, drink up!"

The idea of drinking alcohol when his intellect was needed seemed so preposterous, he did not immediately realize what the Inspector had just let on. "Sorry, sir. What did you say?"

Grumbling, Brackenreid closed his office doors. "I said that you'd better watch how you behave on this one, Detective. People are watching and you do not want to raise any questions whose answers I'd have to act on, if you get my meaning."

Murdoch forced himself to concentrate on the warning. His superior was no fool. No doubt after nearly three years, he suspected there was more to his detective's rooming with a wealthy gentleman than getting access to the latter's library. He'd just implied as much. Holding the Inspector's gaze, he nodded in understanding. So long as all was left unsaid, that there were no proof nor admissions, they were safe from prosecution. For now. Reigning his feelings in, he stood and set the still full glass on the desk. He would not be of any use to James if he lost his wits.

Brackenreid opened the door again to let Dr. Ogden in. George Crabtree was back, panting. Julia addressed them first: "Gentlemen, I've finished my analysis, what little there is, but I believe the Constable has more pressing information."

"Indeed, sirs. Here is the daybook you asked for. By the way, I took the liberty of sending Constable Baker to the house to secure the grounds. You said you believed you were under surveillance, yes?"  


"Thank you, George. Good initiative." Murdoch was appreciative. "Surely, this is not all."  


"Unfortunately not, sir. This envelope was pinned on the main station door when I came in. I sent Constable Briscoe to ask if anyone saw the person who left it. Er... Sir... It's addressed to you. It's identical to the others."

"Could be a ransom letter," Brackenreid added.

Asking God for strength and hoping the envelope did not contain anything that would condemn him, he pulled out the card and another photograph by the top edge. It said ' _His eyes are even more beautiful in person_ '. The photograph showed a close-up of Pendrick's face with a bloody nose and a split lip. A woman's hand wearing a white net glove was cradling his chin. He looked terrified.  


Hearing Julia's whispered "Dear God!" and the Inspector's curses broke Murdoch's shock.  


Murdoch had to take charge, of his emotions and of the situation: "Julia, what have you, please?"  


"Yes. Well... since the notes only contained a few words each, there was little more to infer than what you had already concluded. I do agree with your analysis of the timeline. However, er, I think  _ you _ were the intended target of the letters all along, William." She was choosing her words carefully. "I think the notes addressed to James initially aimed to raise your curiosity about their sender. Maybe act as an amusing puzzle. Then, with a more possessive tone, the sender used your friendship with Mr. Pendrick to cause a stronger reaction in you." Murdoch noticed she had pointedly not said  _ jealousy _ . "Adding this latest note and photograph of James, each message is trying to create an ever greater emotional reaction. The timing of the kidnapping is consistent with this goal."

The implications were too easy to imagine. Crabtree expressed them first: "That means we should expect the messages to increase in intensity, becoming more graphic each time."

"Alright, seeing this latest photograph, it looks like that munz-watcher of a woman's not looking for riches but for thrills. She won't want Pendrick dead until you're at your wits-end, Murdoch."

"Let's hope she doesn't want him to die at all!" Murdoch wasn't able to keep the desperation from his voice.  


The Inspector was right, of course. Obviously, whoever was behind the kidnapping had no interest in Pendrick's money. Rather, this person was playing with his emotions, by endangering the most important person in his life and dangling indiscernible clues. "Mr. Pendrick is the means she uses to affect me. I'd like to know why... I feel like I'm being played." If he were to be honest, he'd been feeling this way for longer than since morning. "It's been days of frustrations, really. But... but, that's neither here not there. George, you were going to say..."

Crabtree was about to answer, but Julia intervened, "A moment George. William, please tell me: since when have you had this feeling, of being played, as you say?"

He started rubbing his forehead. He'd been doing that a lot in the last week. Yes, that was it. "I've been frustrated since we found our John Doe, really. At times, I've felt that body is taunting me. But I don't see how this is related to finding the woman who is holding James."  


"Sirs, Doctor," Crabtree finally said, "Are we still thinking this is the work of a woman? Not the murder, sir, but Mr. Pendrick's kidnapping. It's just that, do we think a woman is strong enough to seize a tall healthy man like that? In a laneway in broad day light, and rough him up like in the picture?"

"She might not be working alone," said the Inspector.

"I can't tell from the notes whether they came from a woman or a man wishing to pass for a woman. This most recent photograph shows a woman's day glove, but a man could be wearing it." Julia became hesitant again. "However, there is another possibility we should consider. Sally Pendrick could be behind it all."  


The men objected, but Julia added "Terence Meyers told us she was to be tried in Montreal, yes? But we have no proof she ever went to court. For all we know, she could be dead, but she could just as well be alive and in prison. Or she could free."

Murdoch stopped himself from swearing for the second time that day. It had not occurred to him that devil of a woman could be involved. The possibility was terrifying. She had already masterminded multiple crimes, including several brutal murders, with no sign of remorse. Worse still, when she was last in Toronto, she had organized a brutal attack on James, ending in his rape, for the simple pleasure of enacting revenge on both James and himself. What horrors she would invent for James now? "I hate to say it, but you are right, Julia. However unlikely, we cannot discount it. She has as much reason to hate me as she does James. If it is her, then James is in mortal danger." And more with every passing minute.  


"You are in danger too, Murdoch. You foiled her plans. You brought her down."

Murdoch was trying to remain objective; his fear was making it nearly impossible. "I shudder to think what she would do to James, but we can't be sure it's Sally. It could still be anyone." They needed a plan. They needed to find who the kidnapper was exactly. "Inspector, if I may, I'd like to bring an additional constable to the house. The security system Mr. Pendrick installed should have alerted us to the presence of an intruder and if she, or he, circumvented it, I'd like to know how. There could be trace evidence as well. Whether or not Sally is back, I don't want to take any chances."

Brackenreid's muttonchops were moving over his cheeks and he was turning redder by the second. He was going to refuse his request.

"Sir, I know I'd be safer if I remained at the station, but I'm useless here. I need to do something! You can always telephone me if there are developments. With constables on site, I should be safe enough tonight and we can canvas the grounds come first light."

After several seconds of mulling it over, the Inspector relented. "All right, Murdoch. You can go home, but only if you take Mitchell and Jackson with you. Try to get some sleep. That's an order. One of them will stand outside your bedroom door all night, is that clear?" He didn't wait for Murdoch's acquiescence. "Take your 'murder bag' with you and after you've looked the property over tomorrow morning, come back here and we'll assess the situation. I'll take care of contacting Terence Meyers." Turning to the constable, he added "Your shift's over, Crabtree. Go home. You'll be needed fresh tomorrow."  


Julia raised a hand to stop him from continuing. "Inspector, I do plan to go home as well, but I just remembered I forgot something at the morgue. I'll see you all tomorrow morning." She hugged William, turned and left. Murdoch recognized Julia's tactic; she'd had an idea and did not care for the Inspector to order her home before she'd explored it. He just wished she'd told him what it was.

He turned to his superior to add, "Sir, I will go home shortly, as ordered, but I'd like to examine James's appointment book before I go. If that's all right?"

Brackenreid nodded his assent before pouring himself another drink.

Crabtree followed the detective to his office. The constable seemed stricken. "Sir, I am so sorry this is happening. With what you've both been through in the last few years, it galls me Mrs. Pendrick might be back to make you suffer. She..." He opened his mouth to continue, but visibly changed his mind. "I can't imagine how you must feel, sir. Is there anything I can do to help? I mean, outside the station?" He gave a quick look toward the Inspector's office as he asked, "Leads to check, maybe?"

Murdoch couldn't help but smile at his constable's loyalty. "You are a good friend, George, to both of us." His words brought colour to Crabtree's cheeks. "I don't have any leads as of now, but something tells me Dr. Ogden is up to something at the morgue. Maybe you could assist her there? You'll be away from the station."

"Ah, good idea, sir! I'll see you tomorrow, sir." They exchanged a conspiratorial smile.

But as soon as George was out of sight, Murdoch's face fell into barely hidden anguish. They truly had no clue. James was missing and they were going blind.

As Murdoch feared, the day book did not reveal any more clues. He was aware of every appointment James had had in the last month. Each item was pithily entered with a date and time. Each had a check mark to indicate they had occurred. All except today's appointments, which he'd missed. Tomorrow's single entry read as ' _Compression_ ,' which meant James had planned to spend the day with Simmons and his assistants in the workshop, solving a problem with the air circulation system he wanted for the new St. Joseph's church. There were no other notes, marginalia or paper that revealed anything Murdoch did not already know.  


It was approaching ten thirty when he left the station. James had been missing for just under twelve hours. Worse, Constable Briscoe had returned from his quarry to reveal two witnesses had seen a tall, blond woman pin tonight's letter to the station door. Sally was a tall, blond woman.

The drive back home felt interminable. All he could think about were ever nastier ways Sally could torture her ex-husband. Jackson and Mitchell tried to engage him in conversation at some point, but they soon gave up. At Pendrick Estate, they found Baker already standing guard by the front door. Murdoch sent Mitchell to the back with a lantern and asked Jackson to follow him inside. He'd have preferred to send to man out back as well, but Brackenreid would no doubt interrogate the constables in the morning and they didn't deserve their superior's wrath.

Besides, if he were honest, Murdoch appreciated the presence of a bodyguard. He didn't think he would ever feel safe in the house again. Empty, with the lights out, it was cavernous and foreboding. The security devices had somehow malfunctioned. That someone had spied on them, and now having her way with James, filled him with dread. That this woman could be Sally made it worse. Jackson's tall frame was a small boon.  


Leaving the constable in the upstairs corridor, he closed the door to what was officially his bedroom. He was immediately struck by its emptiness. The room smelled like home, but felt nothing like it should. There was the bed they normally shared. He did not think he could lie alone in it tonight. Walking to his dresser, he pulled out a pyjama he almost never wore anymore; they normally slept in the nude. He changed quickly and put on the house coat he'd hardly ever taken out since leaving Mrs. Kitchen's boarding house. It smelled a bit musty. Sighing, he grabbed a soft cover from the bed and opened the door once again. "Jackson, I think I'll sleep in the library tonight. To be near the telephone."  


If the constable suspected anything, he didn't let on. They walked back down the broad staircase in silence. Jackson bid Murdoch goodnight as the latter closed and locked the library door.

The books were reassuring. The library was their space. All the knowledge he and James had accumulated here. The memories. The hundreds of hours spent fiddling on the now giant steel maze. Or discussing a difficult case. Or working on an invention together. True, the ballroom was special, it was where William's reserve had slowly loosened. He'd come out of his shell as James had led him on the dance floor. But the library had born the core of their relationship. Their true meeting of the minds had happened here. If the worse happened, a possibility he was definitely _not_ contemplating, the memories in this room would remain. Somehow, these thoughts were keeping the horrors his imagination could produce at bay.  


He checked all the windows. The security devices seemed to engage normally. He chose to sit in his reading chair, playing memories of their relationship in his mind. He managed to fall asleep, James's laugh echoing in his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The car signals mentioned in fact did exist. From what can be gleaned from his personal archives, Nova Scotian H. Léander d'Entremont (then living in Boston) seems to have invented « Safety First Signals », a clever system of car tail lights quite similar to those known today. With a flick of the hand, a car driver could turn on rear light panels that flashed « Left », « Right » or « Stop ». However, a search of early US automotive patents shows that the “Safety First Signals” were actually patented by Kelly Arthur James and Nicholson George Washington of Indianapolis, IN, in 1923. (Source: Archives père Clarence d'Entremont, West Pubnico, « Plans and Inventions », 2001.97-F5-I #24; Kelly Arthur James and Nicholson George Washington, 1923, 'Automotive Signal', Indianapolis, IN, US1457263 A.  
> If d'Entremont could have his patent taken from him by Americans, then so could Pendrick's.


	2. Day Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saturday
> 
> [Finalized version, 21 July 2018]

He woke up to Jackson pounding the door. The sun was just rising. The constable was calling him from the hall. The door revealed Jackson and Baker holding a terrified cook and a seething housemaid respectively. The sight pulled the last sleepy dredges from his mind. He remembered how intractable Fiona the maid became when irked and her Italian stubbornness was now back in full form. "Mister Murdoch! What is happening here? Why are we being manhandled?" She was speaking over poor Baker, who was trying to explain he'd stopped the women from entering the house through the servants' entrance. Fiona was louder. "What is going on, Mr. Murdoch?"

He asked the constables to let them go. "These ladies work for Mr. Pendrick. They are trusted. Mary is our cook and Fiona is the maid." With a weary look toward the fiery petite, they released their charges. Murdoch apologized to the women and ushered them in the library, bidding them to sit. "I'm afraid I have some bad news. Mr. Pendrick is missing. We believe he's been kidnapped." Mary started hyperventilating. "The current assumption is that the culprit is a woman, which is why my men apprehended you."

Fiona's eyes hardened even more. "You mean to say we are under suspicion?"  


Mary blanched. "Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness!"

"Never! I assure you. The constables were simply thinking of my safety." The women fell silent, but Fiona's expression told him to continue at once. "We are doing everything to find him. You know I want him back safely as much as you do. I'll be searching the grounds for evidence and we are following every lead." Murdoch recounted the event of the last few days, including the mysterious letters, though he chose not to mention Sally. He asked them whether they had seen something out of the ordinary, but neither of them had noticed anything untoward. Murdoch tried to reassure them. He knew he'd failed when tears started flowing like silent rivers from his cook's eyes. He had no handkerchief to give her, so he took her hands. "Mary, please. I will find him." Maybe giving her something to do would help her cope. "Mary, would you be so kind as to make breakfast for me and the constables? I'm feeling a bit peckish." She shot out of her seat instantly, apologizing for her oversight as she speed-walked to the kitchen. She'd just gone out of sight when Fiona stood as well.

The maid smiled warmly at the detective and grasped his hand. "I know you'll find him, sir." Then, straightening her back, she added, "If you don't mind, sir, if your men will let me, I'd like to dust the upper rooms today." She looked pointedly at Jackson who now stood alone. No doubt, Baker had escaped back to the front door.

With a silent chuckle at the constable's stunned expression, Murdoch found himself grateful for James's faithful and stalwart staff. "Please attend to your regular duties, Fiona. We would not want Mr. Pendrick to return to a less than spotless house, do we?"  


"No, sir, we wouldn't." She gave him a pointed look and disappeared toward the scullery.

As soon as the maid turned the corner, Jackson let out the breath he's clearly been holding for some time. "If you don't mind me saying so, sir, the kidnapper was lucky she didn't try to take Mr. Pendrick from this house. These women would have stopped her right quick. Miss Fiona could make a formidable constable!" Murdoch completely agreed.  


After his morning ablutions and dressed anew, he entered the dining room to a table already laden with enough to feed an entire squad of constables. He'd lied to Mary about being hungry, but he still filled his plate; he had to keep his energy to find James, even if the food tasted like wet ash in his mouth. He invited Jackson to tuck right in, which the constable happily did, humming his appreciation with nearly every bite. When the detective got up and walked to the music room, the big man looked truly disappointed. Through the glass doors, they found Constable Mitchell on the back terrasse looking tired but ready to help. Murdoch told him to first get some breakfast before joining the search, and to invite Baker to do the same.

The sun was now fully risen. Walking toward the workshop, the detective noticed his thoughts were crystal clear. He felt none of the cognitive paralysis that had gripped his mind the day before. Rather, he felt anger, transforming into rage as he reached the structure. The kidnapper had violated their haven and had taken his lover. She threatened their secret. His investigation would reveal her identity. Whoever she was, he would find her. He'd make her pay.  


At this early hour, the workshop was still silent. Mr. Simmons and his assistants had not yet arrived for the workday. Murdoch could look the site over without interrupting them, or having to answer their questions. His so-called 'murder bag' at the ready, he began his examination with the ground around the workshop, asking Jackson to take notes as he went. There were no unexpected tracks on the gravel path to the front of the building. The grass to the sides had been mowed twice since the photograph was taken, so there were no clear tracks to be seen.  


They walked around to the back door. Using a handkerchief on the knob, Murdoch found it unlocked. Or rather, the lock was engaged, but it had been altered so the deadbolt would still move when one turned the knob. Whoever had spied on them must have removed the lock to modify it; flecks of paint had fallen around the mechanism. He'd have to remove it to study it further. Jackson added this to his list. Above the door, the security device was composed a two magnetic heads that completed an electrical circuit when the door was closed. Were the door to be opened, the current would be interrupted and an alarm would sound in the house. It didn't look like it had been interfered with, so Murdoch had to assume the devices had been altered at another point in the system. Jackson noted this too.  


The lights came on as expected. Partially assembled mechanisms were strewn over workbenches. Larger devices stood half-built in the bays at the west end of the structure. Electric tools were turned off. Sturdy shelves were filled with materials and chemicals. Pendrick's drafting table was covered in papers and plans as usual. Murdoch asked Jackson to take a look around and report anything that stuck out. He doubted the constable would find any kind of untainted trace evidence, not with all the activity the workshop had known since the accursed photograph was taken two weeks prior. So Murdoch's main task was then to identify where the intruder had set up her equipment. He'd already concluded the angle of view on the photograph indicated the intruder probably had stood at one of the east windows, so he headed in that direction.

This part of the workshop served mostly to store large crates and electrical cable spools, but some space was left between the piles and the windows to ensure maximum illumination. From the easternmost window, one had a perfect view of the back terrasse. And right under them, he saw shoe prints in the dust, apparently from men's shoes, and two sets of three equidistant one-inch circles. The telltale signs of tripod legs. The two sets were side by side. Had the intruder spied on them over several days? The workshop was only vacant on Sundays and the picture was taken on a Sunday. There were men working here six days a week, so an intruder would have been noticed on any other day. Further, there could not have been enough natural light in the evenings, and any flash of limelight would have been noticed. Since the layer of dust that covered the tracks was identical throughout, the equipment had to have been place roughly at the same time, and quite a few days ago. Given, the photographer could not have been here on consecutive days, she, no probably  _ he _ must have used two cameras side by side on a single Sunday. Murdoch's heart sank. It was unlikely they had used two still cameras. Odds were, then, they had used a still camera and a movie camera. Considering the content of the photograph, he had to conclude the content of said film was damning. A film of them kissing and hurrying inside with obvious intentions. A film that would send them to prison for indecency if it became public. It was the only explanation that fit the facts.

He swore.

"Everything alright, Detective?" Jackson must have heard him.

"Yes, Constable. All is well. What have you?"

Jackson seemed taken aback by his superior's clipped response: "Er, Baker is taking another look at the grounds, and Mitchell is staying in the house near the telephone."

"Ah, well, very good." The anger he'd felt earlier was turning into rage once more and his patience was fraying. "Have you noticed anything on your end?"  


If the detective's terse response offended the constable further, he did not show it. "Nothing, sir. No signs of a struggle, no blood, or anything I could identify like that. Nothing that seems out of place either, but I don't recognize most of the machines here, or the chemicals, or anything else really." The constable broke into a wide smile. "This place is amazing! I can see why you'd want to live here, sir. This is right up your alley."  


Murdoch could scream. That the love of his life was missing and probably in danger. That everything he cherished was on the line. That at that very moment, he could not care less about inventions and patents and would gladly give it all up for James's safe return.  


Instead, he chose to be pithy. "It is indeed." After clearing his throat, he added. "At any rate, I found where the intruder set up her equipment. We need to take photographs of the scene and check the windows for fingermarks. Maybe the crates also. You should check for fingermarks on the backdoor knob and lock. Inside and out."  


Jackson must have heard the anger in his superior's voice at that point, because he simply nodded and stayed quiet from then on, chancing weary glances from time to time. Murdoch knew he'd have to apologize for his tone at some point, but he didn't think he could keep his emotions in check yet. He chose silence as well.

There were no useable fingermarks on the crates. The wood surface was too rough. The window sill looked to be as useless. One could see where the intruder had placed her fingers on the sill, probably to gain purchase in order to stand up from a kneeling position. The outlines of three fingers, index, middle and ring, were evident in the accumulated dust. But said dust had prevented the transfer of oils from the fingers onto the cracked painted surface. Then Murdoch saw it. The intruder had not used gloves and the tip of one finger had brushed the window pane and left a partial fingermark on the glass. It would not be much to go by for identification, but it was the first real clue they had. A clue. He was making headway. There was hope.  


He was stowing the evidence envelopes in his inner jacket pocket when he heard Baker running toward the workshop. "Sir! I found something!" The constable skidded in the gravel as he stopped. "Sir! I think I found where the intruder left the property. There's a gap in the hedge, that way."

A second clue, perhaps? All was not lost! He ordered Jackson to stay and finish with the door and followed Baker to the far back of the estate. Here James had let the grass grow wild again and he could see where the Constable had made a path crushing the vegetation when fetching him. At the hedgerow, Baker pointed to where the branches between two trees were much sparser. The _thuyas_ in this section of the hedge had yellow rot along their trunks and the lower branches had turned copper and brittle.

The space was narrow, but a woman could easily squeeze her way out. And someone had indeed done so, as well as push equipment through. His rage reasserted itself, this time at himself. After the disaster that had been Sally's return, James had suggested erecting a fence behind the hedge that bordered three sides if the property. In the end, they had decided against it. William had argued that with security devices in place, the buildings were secure enough and there was no need to spend money on a part of the property they never used. He now understood why people sometimes expressed the wish to kick themselves. The phrase had made no sense to him previously. How could one kick oneself? Now he knew. If it were physically possible, he would be kicking himself now. Repeatedly. He deserved it. His oversight had allowed the intruder, likely James's abductor, to move undetected.

Baker was speaking to him, pointing at something. Murdoch was distracted by his emotions again. He had to stop doing that before it got James killed or himself in prison. "I am sorry, constable. Would you repeat, please?"

"I was just asking if those strands there were fur or hair, sir."

He could hardly see them from this angle, but as he leaned in closer, the filaments caught the light. "Good eye, Mr. Baker. Pass me an envelope please." They were indeed human hair. A darker shade of blonde. Using his tweezers he pulled the few strands from a dry branch. The hair was quite short, no more than two inches. A man's hair? Men's shoe prints. So, a man had been here spying on them. A possible accomplice, which made sense. Sally Pendrick had never been known to work alone. She'd had accomplices for the art theft, the micro-wave weapon, and James's rape. It made sense she'd have minions this time too. Placing the hair in another envelope, he asked Baker to take photographs of the site. "I have to return to the station with this information."

Not even waiting for an answer, he ran back to the workshop, just in time to see Mitchell do the same from the house. The latter informed him the station house had telephoned. There had been a development. He checked his watch; almost ten o'clock. James had been missing for about 24h. He needed to find answers faster. He asked Jackson if he was done with the door, which he was.

"Thank you. All right, gentlemen, I need the two of you to check the security systems for both the house and the workshop." He explained how they were to examine all the window and door magnetic sensors, following every wire through each connection to the power source and from there to the alarm bells in and out of the buildings. They were to make note of any cut, nicked or frayed wire, any loose or seemingly new screw, or any sign that the circuits might have been altered, as well as check that the system was still connected to the house's electric panel. It did not matter neither man knew anything about electricity, they just had to follow the cables throughout. Yes, even if it took them all day. Once done, they could return to the station to be relieved of duty and go home.

Murdoch left the baffled constables and ran to the garage where he'd parked the motor car. He made sure the battery had recharged overnight and left for Station House no 4. After a few minutes, he noticed he was going much faster than the ten-mile-an-hour speed limit. He had to consciously lift his foot from the pedal. It might not be too dangerous to go this fast in sparsely populated Rosedale, but as he entered the city, he had to be more careful. He still beat his record driving time by a large margin.

As soon as Murdoch entered the station, Brackenreid took him by the arm. Crabtree followed to the detective's office, where Julia was already sitting. Murdoch's three colleagues looked exhausted. His office's blinds were closed throughout, for which he was grateful. He didn't wish to make a spectacle of himself any further. As he sat at his desk, he asked what was the development that brought him back to the station.

Brackenreid seemed to brace himself before talking. "There isn't one. Not in the Pendrick case, anyway." He stopped his detective's objections with a curse. "I wanted you back here where it's safest."

Murdoch's fist stuck his desk before he could form a thought. "Sir! That's unacceptable! I need to look for James!"

"Oh, for Heaven's sakes, Murdoch! You're not working on this case alone! Besides, there was a development in your headless John Doe. We may be able to solve that case soon."

William bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying very unprofessional things to his superior. He forced himself to turn his gaze away from the stout Inspector to look upon Julia. Her eyes conveyed both compassion and surprise, no doubt at his own uncharacteristic outburst. He cleared his throat to ask, "What development?"  


"Mine," answered Julia. "William, yesterday, you mentioned you felt as if you were being played since the discovery of the headless murder victim."

"I did, but obviously this is not an objective assessment. It means nothing."

"Possibly true, but I didn't want to discount it. Often, we subconsciously make connections that our conscious mind is unwilling to see. Somehow, your subconscious mind has associated the two cases. I didn't want to chance ignoring a possible lead."

"It makes sense, sir," Crabtree added. Murdoch had to concede the point.

"Given that," Julia continued, "I decided to reexamine the body, bearing in mind that the cases might be somehow related. I took another look at the hands in particular. They were largely destroyed, as you know, but there were small sections of skin that had not been touched by the vitriol. Of course, decomposition is advancing, but by treating the tip of the right thumb I was able to raise the epidermis enough to impress a fragmentary fingermark; only a few epidermal ridges from the anterior side of the digit. In the hopes it could lead to an identification, I gave them to Constable Crabtree."

"And I asked Higgins to help, sir," Crabtree continued. "I was surprised, because the ridges are very clear. Now, we haven't found a match yet, but I have hope. I mean, fingermarks almost never allow us to discover something you don't already know, detective, and the section of finger is the size of one of those corn flakes that are all the rage in the United States, if you know what I mean... Er... yes, well, I'm pretty sure that if the victim is on file, we'll find out who it is."

It was a start. "I'm relieved to know we're making headway with the victim finally, but..." Murdoch turned to his superior again, anger rising once more. "Sir, I could have stayed at the house to continue the investigation! I found evidence of surveillance!"

Brackenreid raise both hands in a gesture of pacification. "I'd rather you were here at the station than out there, Me Ol' Mucker! And the lads can gather evidence as well as you do. You trained them well."

"The Inspector is right, William," said Julia, ever the moderator. "Now, please, tell us what you found." Crabtree was nodding vigorously in agreement.

William wanted to object, that he should be doing something, anything, but he was reminded of the Inspector's warning yesterday. His emotions in this case would be his undoing. "Very well." He recounted the morning's discoveries, what he'd asked the constables to complete on site. "We found two helpful elements. I now think that the photographer is a man. There were men's shoe prints on site and the hair we found is too short to be from a woman. Since no man with that shade of blonde had any business at the house that I can recall, I can only deduce they are the intruder's. There is still no way to tell if he is working alone or if a woman is also involved."

"You mean we can't discount Sally Pendrick's the mastermind." As was often the case, the Inspector had voiced what Murdoch had rather not admit.

"I'm afraid so. But at least, we might identify the intruder from the fingermark left on the window." He handed the second envelope to George.

"I'll do my best, sir." The somber constable left for his desk in the bullpen.

Before the discussion could resume, Constable Tisdale knocked. There was a package addressed to Murdoch, postmarked in Toronto, with no return address. The detective wished he could believe it was not related to the kidnapping, but he knew better. Who else would send him anonymous mail?

The package's string was loosely tied and unraveled easily. The brown wrapping paper was crisp and new. The small box revealed a phonograph cylinder wrapped in one of James' monogrammed handkerchief. The latter was covered in blood. William forced himself to breathe. The Inspector was cursing, so was Julia, but he could hardly hear them. Willing his hands to still, he walked to the Edison player he kept on the sideboard and placed the cylinder. Before engaging the mechanism, he sat down on his workbench stool.

The recording began with five seconds of the hum of an engine. Then the sound of laboured breathing, very near the microphone, lasting less than half a minute. The breathing suddenly accelerated, to be replaced by a gut-wrenching scream. James' scream of pain. Horrible pain, lasting at least thirty seconds. As the scream died, as if James had lost consciousness, one could hear the soft giggle of a man, nearly drowned out by the sound of the engine. Then the recording ended.

William was glad to be sitting. He doubted he'd be able to stand without empying his stomach. Brackenreid was cursing a stream, Julia had tears in her eyes. Outside his office, the station had gone silent. No doubt, everyone had heard the recording. He reset the cylinder and started the player again. Knowing the scream was coming did not make the experience any easier, but he forced himself to concentrate on every other sound but his lover's voice. He couldn't identify what kind of engine was heard, but the recording did confirm his previous conclusion: the culprit was a man. If there was a woman involved, even Sally, she was not the active participant in James' torture. A man had photographed them. A man was hurting his lover and enjoying it.

He started the recording again, this time only listening to the last few seconds when the giggle could be heard. Then he listened to it again. Julia asked what he was doing, but he ignored her. That soft laugh was niggling at his memory. Playing the end of the cylinder a third time confirmed his feeling; there was something familiar with it. Had he heard it before? The fourth play gave him certainty. He knew this laugh, but just did not know from when. There must be another clue, another sound that would reveal a clue. He started the Edison player once more, this time from the beginning. And repeated this several more times. Frustratingly, he could not garner anything more. There was the engine, the scream, the laugh that identified the culprit, but he could not place it.

When he finally looked up to share his deductions with Brackenreid and Julia, he was alone in his office. The bloody handkerchief was gone as well. Julia must have taken it for analysis. It was nearly noon. With a sigh, he decided that maybe he should eat something, at least have some tea. He needed to think and James would scold him if his missed a meal. He had to keep his wits about him, though he was doing a horrible job of it. Crabtree's conclusion yesterday that the kidnapper would wrench stronger emotions out if him with each mail delivery was correct.

In the break room upstairs, he found Briscoe and Hodge. The younger constable just had finished his lunch. He offered sympathies about the situation and left. The older man bid William to sit and handed him a cup of tea. There was an opened biscuit tin, but Hodge placed a hot meat pie in front of him and winked. "We figured you'd forget to eat, sir, so I went by Puddy's Butchery."

Gratitude filled him. He thanked the older man with what he hoped was his warmest smile. The lads were good, decent people, Hodge, especially. He might have been acting like a desperate fool since yesterday, but he had received nothing but help and support from his colleagues. He needed to count on his men. The constables of Station house no. 4 would find James, even if his homosexuality was revealed in the end, whether through his own behaviour or the kidnapper's messages. The prospect of going to prison was daunting, but imprisonment was preferable to mourning and death. Finding his lover alive was all that counted.

No doubt his face was telegraphing his emotions, because the older constable's kind eyes caught his and said, "You're doing everything you can."

"I can't help thinking I'm not doing enough."

Hodge sat close and placed a hand on the detective's shoulder. "Will, I've seen a lot in my day, you know." The older constable sighed. "I'm not smart like you. But I can tell when things are important. Finding Mr. Pendrick is important." There was a veiled message here. Had Hodge figured it out, already? The others? Julia had told him many times his emotions were transparent to anyone who took notice of his eyes. Brackenreid had hinted the same yesterday. "Will, this station is like one of your well-oiled machines. We're all in gear to find him."

A machine. Yes, that was it! The machinery that produced the sound on the recording would indicate a possible location. He didn't have to identify the kidnapper if he knew where the recording was made! James was being held there! There was no time to lose.

Thanking Hodge, Murdoch ran down the stairs to his office, nearly choking on his last bite of meat pie. He was about to start the Edison player once again, focussing on the beginning of the recording, when he was interrupted by Brackenreid's calling him from across the bullpen. "My office, now!"

As he entered the Inspector's office, he saw constables Jackson, Mitchell and Baker leaving through the other doorway. Crabtree was standing behind a seated Julia. Brackenreid, holding a glass of scotch, ordered, "Sit down, Murdoch. Did you get anything more from the cylinder?"

"Nothing as of yet, sir. Though, I am convinced I know the laughing man on the recording. That voice is very familiar. I just can't quite place the last time I heard it."

"You'll remember soon enough. This head of yours doesn't forget anything." Apparently, Brackenreid had more faith in him than himself right now. "I contacted Terence Meyers last night and he just called be back. He confirmed that Sally Pendrick was tried and sentenced to death last year. She was hanged eight months ago at the Fullum Prison in Montreal. He witnessed it. She can't be behind all this."

Murdoch sighed in relief. "It seems unlikely, indeed. She would have had to set up her plan too well in advance." If not her, who, then? "It's ever more likely this is the work of a man trying to pass for a woman."

"A good way to make sure we'd be looking for the wrong person, eh? Anyway, the lads finished their canvassing of St. David's Street and thereabouts. Several shopkeepers stated seeing Pendrick leave his car and run down St. David's around ten yesterday morning. No one saw where he went. However, one elderly man later saw a delivery cart turning the corner of Blair Avenue with what he thought was a sack of live chickens in the back. The sack was wriggling. We figure it was Pendrick, hogtied in there. The old chap says the driver was male, but he didn't see his face. The driver was wearing a hat and the old man was looking out his second floor window. But, he says the horse was dun-coloured."

"That's a rare enough," Julia observed. "How many horses with a dun coat could there be in Toronto?"

"My thoughts exactly," Brackenreid responded. "I told Constable Jones to call every livery in the city."

"That's good news, sir."

"It is, but there's more. I just sent Mitchell, Baker and Jackson home. They went through the house like you ordered and they found several spots where the circuits were cut in the security system. You were right about that. Whoever's behind all this is damned clever."

Murdoch was rubbing his forehead again. He wished they were in his office, so he could summarize on his blackboard. "So, we now know James was taken alive by a man in the laneway shortly before ten am yesterday. The kidnapper, using a horse-drawn cart, brought James to a place with working machinery and then proceeded to torture him, at least long enough to make a recording of it. This man has ample technical knowledge, is good at surveillance, and has an ability to go unnoticed."

Julia continued, "We also can deduce this man considers you his enemy. He's gathered private information about you with the clear intent to use it against you. He's patient and calculating, dolling out clues in a carefully crafted manner to cause you increasing psychological distress. This is personal for him."

It certainly felt personal. Murdoch was beginning to realize that no matter the outcome, his relationship with James was most likely going to become public by the end of this ordeal. "Julia, what of the handkerchief the cylinder was wrapped in? I presume you took it."

"I did. I wanted to test whether the blood was human or animal."

"How is that possible, Doctor?" Crabtree face seemed as incredulous as the Inspector's.

"I remembered that last month, William mentioned reading an article on using rabbit blood enzymes to identify human blood proteins. I tracked down the article and applied the method. I can confirm the blood on James's handkerchief is indeed human, though I can't tell if it's his."

They were running in circles, while James was in mortal danger. He'd been taken thirty four hours ago. "Is there any good news?" Murdoch asked sardonically.

Crabtree gave an apologetic smile as he spoke: "Yes, sir, of a kind. We solved the John Doe case. The victim is one Kenneth Gillies. He was the father of James Gillies. I don't know if your remember: Gillies and his friend, another university student, had killed a university professor a couple years back? We had the father's fingermarks on file only because he'd caused quite a bit of a scene at the Court House when his son was sentenced to hang."

James Gillies? He remembered the case well. Gillies had masterminded the near perfect murder simply to see if he could get away with it. Why would his name reappear now?

Crabtree was still speaking: "Anyway, the Gillies family are quite well-to-do, as you know, so I tried to see why no one reported Mr. Gillies senior missing. First of all, his wife couldn't have, because Mrs. Gillies left for Europe with her sister after her son lost his last appeal last year. She is not expected to return to Canada. Kenneth Gillies himself was to have left for San Fransisco on business four weeks ago. His household staff here in Toronto had been told not to expect any communications from him during his absence, so they did not know he was missing at all. I telegrammed the hotel he was supposed to stay at in California and he never checked in. My guess is that he never left Toronto at all. And... his son James Gillies couldn't have said anything either. Prison records show he was executed at Kingston Pen' two months ago. His body was given over to the family's barrister."

James Gillies. Why was that name stirring such a strong reaction in him? James Gillies? Yes! The laugh! "The cylinder!" Murdoch rushed to the bullpen to talk to Higgins at his desk. "Are you still looking for the partial fingermark I found?"  


The poor constable was flustered. "Yes, sir. It's not much to go on. I haven't identified it yet."

"Please compare it to James Gillies's fingermarks. We have them on file."

"Gillies is dead, Murdoch!" Brackenreid sounded both annoyed and confused.

"Is he, sir? Are we sure?" Murdoch didn't want to be right. Being right would mean James was in the hands of a veritable Iago.

Higgins started riffling through the identification cards strewn all over his desk, "G. Gi. Ah, Gillies!" As he pored over the marks with his magnifying glass, the constable's face turned to sheer befuddlement. "You're right, sir. It's from James Gillies's top right middle finger. Look."

Murdoch took the cards and the proffered magnifying glass. The epidermal ridges were identical. "I concur."

"Bloody Hell! How is Gillies still alive? He was hanged!" Brackenreid had turned a bright shade of red. "More over, Murdoch, how did you figure that one out?"

"It was the laugh on the recording, sir. I knew I'd heard it before, but I couldn't place it, until I heard the name. I last spoke with Gillies over two years ago."

Julia made a sound much like a groan: "This means, William, that you unconsciously were right all along. The two cases were indeed related after all."  


"Through James Gillies," Murdoch whispered.

"But how did Gillies avoid the noose?" Everyone looked at Crabtree as he spoke. "Right, I'll call Kingston Penitentiary right away. And the family's attorney."

Murdoch made his way to his office, gesturing Julia and Brackenreid to follow. "I hate to say it, but... let's assume Gillies is alive. The recording appears genuine." He played the latter segment of the cylinder. The laugh, no more than a chortle, sounded real. "I can find no indication that this recording was edited. We hear... Mr. Pendrick... scream, then we hear James Gillies laugh. What is left is for me to identify is the type of machinery heard at the beginning and end of the cylinder. If we know what kind of engine it is, we could possibly identify where James is being held."  


"Fine, get to it," Brackenreid said. "I'll let the lads know all the station's resources are now required to find James Gillies. I'll also telephone the other Station Houses to appraise them of the situation and ask them to put more men on that as well." He nodded to Dr. Ogden and left.  


She placed a tender hand on the Detective's shoulder, "William, how are you faring?"

The few seconds William took to think about his mental state brought tears to his eyes, "I can't lose him, Julia." He ached as he said it.

"You won't."

"I'm not so sure. The odds are not in our favour. Even if we find James alive and well, and we arrest Gillies, chances are he will have arranged for ample proof of our relationship to be made public."

"You are certain Gillies is behind this."

"I am. I know it's him. Indications that a woman was behind it all were carefully planted, by Gillies. We came to the conclusion Sally was the culprit all on our own."

"This is devilish."

"You said it yourself, Julia. Gillies is intelligent, calculating, cautious. You remember the report on Professor Bennett's murder. For Gillies, killing is a game, an intellectual puzzle he engages in for enjoyment. He is laughing on the cylinder, because he is entertained!" Fear and anger mingled within his chest. It hurt to breath. "James is in even greater danger than we originally thought. Sally was vengeful. But Gillies is vicious. He will stop at nothing to get maximum gratification from me and James."

They sat in silence. Yet Julia didn't look as defeated as he felt, "Maybe if we look into Gillies's original accomplice, we could garner some more clues. What was his name, again?"

"Robert Perry," Murdoch stated automatically.

"Let me mention him to the Inspector, mmm?" Murdoch simply nodded his agreement. Julia was once again proving to be the most faithful friend. "Now, William, what are you going to do?"

He was torn. "I don't know. The best possible outcome we can hope for is that we find James relatively unhurt, and that we manage to leave Toronto before being charged for incident behaviour. However, even if James is in good condition, it is much more likely we will be both arrested and jailed at the end of this ordeal. Gillies will stop at nothing to ruin my life." Voicing his next conclusion was the hardest. "Besides, I'm afraid his taunting has already succeeded in forcing me to reveal my feelings to everyone here." He recounted Brackenreid's comments from yesterday and Hodge's kind words.

Julia gave him a comforting smile. "I know you are frightened, William. But you can trust the men here. They are loyal to you. So is the Inspector. As long as he has choice in the matter, I'm confident he will prefer to quietly let you resign than lay charges. Rumours are better than a trial for the Station's reputation."

"I need to speak with him, I guess. I hope you are right, Julia. "

"I always am, William. You know that!" Her playful tone brought a reluctant smile to Murdoch's face. "So, what are you going to do next?"

Julia was putting him to task, as well she should. Wallowing would not bring James back. He let out a slow, shaky breath, looking for his centre but only finding anger. It would have to do. "There is still some missing information," he noted. "Tracking down the horse Gillies used, for instance. Until we know more, I'll try to identify the machinery in the recording. Try to find its location. This should be my foremost priority for now."

"Good. With this in mind, I will ask for access to Gillies' and Perry's psychological evaluation files and I'll confer with Paul. With his help, we should find further insights."

Of course, she would speak with Dr. Roberts. They had been seeing quite a lot of each other in the last few months. William and James had rejoiced that she had finally found a good man who would care for her as strongly as he would respect her intellect. "How is the good Doctor?" 

"Quite well, and worried about the situation. I spoke with him last night: he is eager to help."

William was reminded of why he'd once been in love with this wonderful woman. Her brilliance was equaled by few and her kindness was unparalleled. He thanked her and embraced her tightly. They parted in silence.  


Murdoch had been the Detective at Station House no 4 for the better part of a decade, now. He considered many of the men here his friends. Crabtree, Higgins, Hodge and the Inspector were people he liked and whose opinion he sought out. Now, too soon, that life would be over. He could not quite believe what was happening. In a less than day, he was losing everything.

In the aftermath of the Judge Donaldson case over a year ago, James had decided they had better prepare for the possibility their relationship could attract the eyes of the law. They had some money: William had been saving his wages since moving in with with Pendrick. The latter payed for nearly everything since they'd begun courting, which meant he had very few expenses. On top of this, James had opened an account for what he referred to as "petty cash," though William had an entirely more humble definition for the phrase than his former millionaire lover seemed to have. Those amounts were substantial, though they would not help much if they were arrested. Flight was the best option. Since a successful escape would require not entirely legal means, Pendrick had taken over the planning operation, giving the detective plausible deniability. He’d prepared their escape from Toronto in great detail, probably more thoroughly than necessary. James had argued that paranoia was the more prudent option in their case, seeing as the constabulary would consider Murdoch a flight risk.

Their plan went as such: if the need arose, they would make their way to Montreal by train, separately if necessary, continuing through to Longueuil Station, then taking a cab back into the city. There, Pendrick had deposited a respectable amount at the National Bank. They would lay low for a month at most, using false papers James had acquired, then take a train to New York. From there, they would book passage to Cherbourg and there on by train to Paris. William did not know how his lover had arranged for any of this. He only knew what telephone numbers to call and what instructions to give if they were to flee. On the same day William and James would leave Toronto for Montreal under false identities, two men matching their description and using their names would also board a train heading for Buffalo, while another two would travel to Vancouver. William was certain his partner had planned many other false trails he did not know about, and knew there were other contingencies, if Montreal was out of reach or if one of them were arrested. He had prayed the day would never come, and yet it now seemed nigh inevitable.

The recording was beckoning, but he needed to speak with the Inspector, lest his fears stopped him from concentrating on the analysis. He crossed the bullpen and knocked on his superior's door frame. "Sir, do you have a moment?" He saw Julia had already left the station.

If Brackenreid was surprised to see him mere minutes after they'd last spoken, he did not let on. Murdoch had noted his superior was acting a bit colder towards him, and he did not doubt the reason behind his change in attitude. "Come in. Close the door."

There was no point in denying anything anymore. He might have to come clean later, make a full confession if need be, but he wished to at least acknowledge how profoundly his situation, as part of Station House no 4, had changed since yesterday. "Sir, I'd like to apologize for my behaviour in the last twenty-four hours. I know have been behaving quite unusually."

"Yes, well, you're under a lot of strain, I reckon." There was sympathy in the Inspector's eyes. "If Margaret..."

There it was. If Brackenreid had once suspected what James was to William, he now knew.

"I am... It's difficult, sir..." He was losing his resolve and Brackenreid was loosing his patience.

"Murdoch, don't say things you'd regret."

He cleared his throat. There was such a finality to this conversation. "Sir, after we find Mr. Pendrick," he said, locking with his superior's gaze, "if the circumstances allow it, I intend to tender my resignation from the Constabulary. We will leave Toronto. I believe you'll agree it is the best course of action." It was as close to an admission he could make without forcing Brackenreid's hand.

The latter's nod told him his message had been heard. Brackenreid begane to pace.

"I'm sorry to have disappointed you, sir," which was resolutely true.

Brackenreid nodded again. "I'm sorry too."

In the past, the Inspector's feelings toward homosexuality had seemed ambivalent at best. Though the Inspector tolerated the existence of "deviants," as he referred to them, he'd expressed little care for them as a group. Harassment and roughhousing were common occurrences at the hands of all of Toronto's Constabulary and Station House no 4 was no different. Yet, over the years, Murdoch had also witnessed his Inspector display respect and solicitude toward several homosexuals. More so recently. But those individuals had always been either friends or fellow Masons, and never in a position of authority. Brackenreid was on record as stating sodomites had no business in government or policing given their innate moral inferiority. "Bloody Hell! I hate to loose you. You're the best Detective this city has ever known! But I agree, you shouldn't continue in your position after this is over."

"I understand, sir. I expected as much." Murdoch extended his hand, which the Inspector took readily. He found himself revealed; "Thank you. For everything."  


"I hope circumstances remain in your favour, as you say. You deserve better than what the law requires me to do." Brackenreid stopped and sighed. There was nothing left to say. "Now go find Pendrick."

As Murdoch reached his office, he heard his superior slam his desk, shouting "Bullocks!" He shared the sentiment.

After eight careful listenings, Murdoch had eliminated quite a few types of machines, either because of pitch, frequency or rhythm. Whatever the engine was, it did not create an alternative movement, either by piston or lever. This eliminated most industrial machinery. The sound did contain a repeating sequence of three seconds, which indicated the use of a wheel or pulley, perhaps a simple gear system. The engine could be heard through the entire recording, which indicated continuous use, at least during the two-minute length of the cylinder. Was the machine a ventilator, a conveyor belt? There was no way to tell yet.

Unfortunately, the cylinder was of low quality, the cheapest on the market, and repeated plays were already affecting sound quality. It would not be long before the recording would be inaudible. He decided against further wear. Having memorized the sound, Murdoch went to his bookcase to consult his well-worn copy of Giuseppe Antonio Borgnis' Handbook of Machine Designs, starting with volume one. Somewhere in the myriad descriptions of possible motors was the answer.

He had just eliminated conveyer belts when Crabtree asked for entrance, with a rather confused look on his face. "Sir, I just spoke to Dr. Platt, Kingston Pen's warden. He says he witnessed James Gillies' hanging." The constable's brow knotted a little more. "But, he also said that on that day, Gillies looked especially gaunt and sullen, and that he refused to speak when asked for last words. He thought that was especially strange since Gillies was usually very fond of taunting him."  


"What does that mean?"

"He didn't know either, sir. Anyway, I also spoke with Mr. Urquhart, Gillies' barrister. He took possession of the body right after the hanging and arranged for a burial at Mount Pleasant Cemetery, but not in the family plot, however. The father was adamant about that apparently. Urquhart also witnessed the hanging, and he too claims that Gillies didn't seem like himself that day. He'd expected to be showered with elaborate insults ⎯ his words, sir ⎯ but Gillies said nothing."

How curious? The James Gillies Murdoch remembered was nothing if not talkative, and quite scathing. "So both men, quite familiar with Gillies, found his behaviour uncharacteristic at the time of the hanging." Maybe he had escaped the noose after all. Murdoch's stomach twisted even more at the thought. "I'd say we need to confirm that it was indeed Gillies that was hanged."

"Already on it, sir. With the Inspector's permission, I asked for the coroner's report to be brought to the station and sent Armstrong to the courthouse for a warrant to dig up the body."

"Well done, George. Thank you." Crabtree was about to leave when Murdoch stopped him. There was something he needed to do before the end of business hours. "One more thing, George. Do you remember Jake? He's the street boy who's provided me with useful information in the past."

"I believe so, sir. Blond, rather, er, big nose? He hangs around in the Ward usually, no?"

"Yes, George, that's him. Would you track him down and tell him to meet me on Scott Street Lane in..." Murdoch looked at his watch. Dear Lord, was it already almost three o'clock? "... I'll meet him there at four thirty."

As Crabtree left, Murdoch decided he would give the matter of the engine another few minutes before leaving for the bank. At the rate his colleagues were realizing the true nature of his relationship with James, most would have figured it out by next morning. He needed to prepare for their eventual flight from the city, which meant money. Finding James alive was paramount, but it would be for naught if they stayed in Toronto. When the hour reached three thirty, his list of possible machines had been whittled down to elevators, lifts, and warehouse cranes.  


He took the old leather satchel he stored under his photography table, emptied it of loose paper, and looked about the office. What would he regret leaving behind here? None of the books were truly irreplaceable and besides they would need to pack light. The same stood for his equipment.

He needed to focus on sentimental value. His father's miniature schooner, certainly; it had followed him from home in Nova Scotia, to the orphanage and then to Jesuit College, all the way through his logging years to Toronto. However fragile it was, he was taking it with him. His young brother Albert's death portrait — it had stood atop the banker's bookcase since he'd become detective at Station House no 4 — this was coming too. He took it out of its ornate frame and stored it as well. There might be souvenirs tucked between the pages of all his reference books, but there was no time to check.

He did stow his hand missal and his rosary in the satchel; he'd brought them to the station last Sunday, having been called in directly from church. The prayer book was filled with holy cards, printed colourful portraits of saints and prayers, some that had belonged to his mother. He was not leaving it behind. This reminded him he kept a medal of Saint Michael the Archangel in his desk. He went to take it, as well as Liza's picture, from the righthand drawer. Looking at the medal, he briefly mused that what he truly needed was a medal of Saint Jude, because he'd certainly become a lost cause. Or maybe Saint Expedit, to carry him and James to safety. He sent a quick prayer to both Saints just in case and continued rummaging through his desk. There were a few letters, some odds and ends, but he decided to leave his birth certificate. With a heavy heart, he also did not take any of the pictures taken with Julia and his friends at the station. Identifying documents were to be left behind.

He was fastening the satchel's leather straps when Constable Jones entered with news. He had found the dun-coloured horse, which belonged to a George C. Tumlin, who owned a livery at 13, Duke Street.

Duke Street was in the middle of the station's district. "Constable, this is right in our back yard! How is it it took you the better part of the day to identify the owner?"

The poor lad stammered at his superior's sudden anger. "Er... There are over a hundred liveries in Toronto, sir. I telephoned them in alphabetical order."  


"Oh. I see." The letter T was near the end of the alphabet, after all. Murdoch regretted his outburst immediately, "My apologies, constable. What have you found?"

"Yesterday, the horse and cart were hired out to a Miss Gillian James for the morning. She said she was moving a piano. They were returned just past noon. Mr. Tumlin described her as tall, blond and homely."

Gillian James? Of course, James Gillies! Wearing a disguise. The man was lithe enough to pass for a woman if he wore a dress and wig, but his face would not be attractive with makeup on. This gave them an actual lead to Gillies' whereabouts. Asking Jones to follow, satchel in hand, Murdoch beckoned Constables Perkins and Irving. He tasked them to canvas the district, starting from Duke Street, asking if anyone had seen the unusually-coloured horse and cart, whether driven by a mysterious "woman" or man with a broad hat. They were to ask every store owner and passerby, all residents until they found the cart's ultimate destination. He reminded them that the cart had been seen the previous day around ten am on the corner of St. David's Street and Blair Avenue, and that it was most likely what had transported Mr. Pendrick to an unknown location. They were to bring in as much help as necessary in order to find where the cart went.

Murdoch then turned to Jones: "Constable, I need to go to Mr. Pendrick's bank, to speak to the manager about a possible lead." It was a blatant lie, but he couldn't think of a better justification for going there. "Since I too am under threat from Mr. Pendrick's kidnapper, I cannot leave the station without an escort. You are coming with me." Not waiting for a response, he led the constable to the station's bicycle stand and they headed to the corner of King and Yonge.

They were there in no time. Murdoch ordered Jones to stay in the massive building's vestibule. He went inside and he asked for the bank's general manager, showing his badge. He was going to get what he needed, no matter what. He intended to be persistently genial with the man.

The guest clerk brought him directly to Mr. Brough's office and disappeared, looking like the proverbial cat who ate the canary. After presentations, the detective went straight to business, stating the lie he'd practiced in his head as he cycled. "Mr. Brough, I have to leave Toronto on short notice for Argentina. I am to follow the leader of a criminal organization behind a string of murders linked to a war between smuggling operations all over Ontario."

The manager appeared suitably worried. "It sounds quite serious, sir. How is the Dominion Bank involved? Surely, you are not implying my institution is implicated?"

Murdoch gave the man a reassuring smile. "Not at all, sir. But going to South America is an expensive undertaking. The Constabulary will reimburse me for the costs, but only upon my return. I will need funds, as quickly as possible, to undertake the journey." To the detective's eye, Brough seemed eager to help. Hoping his plan would not backfire, he added, "I am to leave Toronto tomorrow."

The banker had not expected such a quick deadline, but remained amiable. "Tomorrow? This is indeed an emergency. You will need a loan, then?"

"No, sir. Rather, I would like to empty my own account." Murdoch cringed inwardly as the banker lost his smile, but plowed on. "It seems the simplest solution. I am to leave tomorrow after all. I'd like your advice, of course, but I was hoping to take a part of the amount in cash and the rest in bearer bonds. Would that that possible, sir?"

Brough responded slowly: "Of course, I do think it's possible... though it would take some time to draft the bonds. As you know, there is some paper work involved, but... as it is an emergency, we should be able to accommodate you before closing." He said the last words looking at his watch mournfully.

"That is greatly appreciated, sir. Thank you." They both rose and Murdoch shook Brough's hand enthusiastically.

"I will require you bank account number, of course."

"Oh, I have two accounts, actually," Murdoch explained as he handed two bank booklets to the now baffled banker. "My personal account, which should contain just under two thousand dollars in savings, and an account I share with Mr. James Pendrick for special projects. It is a joint, single-signature account. I believe it has about five thousand dollars in it. I would like to empty both, please."

At this the banker looked simply flummoxed. The detective was asking to leave with a small fortune after all. "Mr. Murdoch," he stammered, "that is not an insignificant amount of money. Are you sure you have Mr. Pendrick's permission to take it?"

Murdoch nodded in a way he hoped looked sympathetic. "I understand, sir. As a manager, you must be cautious when dealing with these sorts of amounts. But I am a police officer. Besides, Mr. Pendrick and I made sure this particular account only required a single signature for operations in order to precisely allow either of us full use the founds at a short notice."

"I see." Brough still seemed doubtful.

"I believe we made certain there was a note to that effect in the bank registry. Feel free to check, sir. I am certain all is in order."

After some more reassurances, Mr. Brough finally relented. Murdoch even conspicuously flashed his badge again for good measure.

In the end, the entire procedure took no time at all. Mr. Brough suggested that he take half his personal savings in cash and the rest in bearer bonds. Before leaving the director's office, he stashed twenty dollars in small bills in his wallet and placed the remainder in the satchel. Murdoch finally left the bank at just past four thirty. Constable Jones stood in the vestibule, looking a little bored.

"All set, sir? Did you find out what you were looking for?"

"Yes, constable, thank you." As they passed the ornate doors onto the street corner, Murdoch added, "I have a meeting with a... source... on Scott Street Lane. You will accompany me to the entrance of the laneway, but no further. This person would not appreciate the sight of a copper. Do you understand, Jones?"

"Are you sure, sir? What if it is a trap?"

"It cannot be a trap, constable. I arranged for the meeting." Murdoch would not begrudge Jones for doing his job. In fact, he wished he could take him to the back alley, but Jake was to remain anonymous for everything to work.

They reached the lane and Murdoch indicated where Jones should stand. He then rounded the building. Jake gave him a welcoming (and partially toothless) smile. The lad had grown since they had last spoken.

"Jake. Good to see you. I have a mission for you. There is some good money for you at the end of it."

"You know you can always count on me, sir." Jake was a good lad at heart, but money was how Murdoch ensured his loyalty. The boy had to feed his ailing mother and brothers, after all.

"Good, good." He handed the boy his leather satchel. "I need you to deliver this to the James Pendrick Estate in Rosedale." He handed him the address. "Once at the estate, don't ring the door. Go inside the car garage, and leave the satchel in the cubby to right side of the door. Here is a quarter dollar for you now. Once you've delivered the satchel, look for an old tea tin above the garage door. Inside, you will find a silver dollar. It is for you, for completing the task."

The boy's eyes were as wide as the coin he'd been promised. "That's... yes, sir, right away, sir!" He went to leave, but Murdoch stopped him with a hand.

"One more thing, Jake. I'll need you to do one more for me in the coming days. It'll require your discretion. I'll contact you with more information very soon. You'll follow the instructions to the letter, won't you?"

"Yes, sir. You can always count on me, sir." The boy was still thanking him when he entered the back door of a vacant shop fronting Scott Street.  


Well, this was it, then. What James had jokingly referred to as "Operation Exodus" was afoot. There was no turning back now. All William needed to do now was find his lover, safe, if not sound. He turned to leave the laneway.

He had not taken two steps that a left arm closed around his torso from behind, while a right hand pressed a cloth over his mouth and nose. The smell was unmistakable: chloroform! As he fell into unconsciousness, all he could think was that maybe his assailant would take him to James. Then, there was only black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I always thought the show was a little too liberal with its use of recording cylinders. These were made of wax. Yes, it was hard wax, but wax is still malleable. Imagine it: a heavy reading harm pressing its entire weight through a sharp metal needle onto a wax surface. It's going to wear the thing down. A lot of use will make the cylinder impossible to hear. Modern historians have to employ a whole lot of filters and noise cancellation software to make cylinder recordings listenable on a good day.
> 
> 2\. I love Fiona. CameoSF invented a pretty cool character. I wish I could have her feature more in this story, but I can't imagine how.
> 
> 3\. I may have exaggerated the number of telephone lines installed in Toronto in order to forward the plot. Slightly.


	3. George Crabtree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saturday and Sunday
> 
>  
> 
> [Finalized version, 21 July 2018]

This whole business was truly terrible. I considered Detective Murdoch a good friend, Mr. Pendrick too, and now the first was hurting because the second was in danger. It felt like we were running in circles trying to find him. I'd come to really like Mr. Pendrick over the years. He was funny, quick-witted and learned, a perfect match for the Detective, and most of all, they were happy together. So very happy. I had never heard the Detective laugh before he'd started living with James Pendrick. I couldn't begin to understand how two men could love each other like that, I mean like husband and wife, but it was clear to me how they felt about each other. It broke my heart to see the Detective so scared and desperate like that, trying to find the one he loved before it was too late.

I didn't know how many people at the station had figured it out. Not many for sure. It wasn't as if I was going to talk about it with the lads. I mean, I knew, but of course I'd been to their house. And I'd caught them kissing more then once, to my shame. They'd been so discreet. I knew Dr. Ogden knew; she was one of the first brought into their confidence. Dr. Roberts too. I think maybe the Inspector knew; maybe the Detective had even told him, I wasn't certain. Other than them, I thought Higgins might have guessed on account of his cousin being that way too. Otherwise, their secret had been safe. Or so I thought.

I was quite worried that this Gillies fellow would force the Detective's hand. Who knew what kind of photograph Gillies had taken? What kind of evidence he'd gathered? And if he murdered Mr. Pendrick, I was certain Detective Murdoch would never recover. I remembered how he'd been after Dr. Ogden had moved to Buffalo; he'd been despondent on the good days. And so many years ago, the death of his fiancée Liza had gutted him. I still remembered seeing him staring at her picture, the one he still kept in his desk, for hours, fighting back tears. I know for a fact he had loved both women romantically, deeply, yet I had no doubt those feelings didn't even compare to what the Detective felt for Mr. Pendrick. If he died, I was certain we'd lose the Detective too.

Pretty much the entire station was working on the case, but there was little to go on. It was a bit disheartening. We weren't exactly going in blind, at least: there was the horse, and the recording, and there was Gillies as a suspect. We were all doing our best. I'd done a lot of things to protect their secret over the years, and now one of them was missing. The other was in pain, and all I could do was my job.

I'd spent most of the afternoon on the telephone, back and forth with Kingston Pen' and the Kingston Constabulary. What I was learning was disconcerting, to say the least. When I saw Detective Murdoch leave his office toward the station's front door, I tried to get his attention, but Kingston's inspector was talking a mile a minute at the other end of the line, and the Detective was not looking my way. Around five o'clock, I finally walked into Inspector Brackenreid's office. He was sitting, looking as dour as I felt and I would have bet it was far from his first glass of scotch in his hand. I didn't envy his position right now either.

"What do you have, Crabtree?" he grumbled.

I just went and told him without flourish or anything.

Kingston Pen's warden, Dr. Platt, took a look at his files and told me he thought he'd figured out how James Gillies had escaped the noose. In the weeks prior to his scheduled execution, he had grown a beard and let his hair go. That'd had made him look nearly identical to a prison guard named Robert Shoucair. That guard, it turned out, had resigned for health reasons on October 4th, the very same day James Gillies was supposed to hang. Somehow, Gillies must have convinced Shoucair to change places with him in the gallows. I then told the Inspector about Shoucair's widow living on Dundas Street.

But there was more. While talking to Dr. Platt, I had mentioned in passing that we thought Gillies was responsible for kidnapping Mr. Pendrick. That's when Dr. Platt remembered that among the dozens of letters Gillies had ever received in prison, there had been one written from a fellow inmate, the one and only Sally Pendrick, writing from Fullum Prison in Montreal. Platt had remembered the name of the correspondent because it was the only letter Gillies had ever responded to during his entire incarceration. In fact, Gillies had thrown out the other letters unread. Now, Platt had admitted to me that at the time, he'd considered not transmitting Mrs. Pendrick's letter in the first place. The tone of her letter had made him uneasy, and the fact it came from another incarcerated criminal was suspicious. But since it only contained her laments over her husband's inadequacies, Platt had let it pass. He'd been surprised Gillies had responded at all. His return letter had been polite and complimentary. Mrs. Pendrick's following missive, he had not given to Gillies, because she'd spoken ill of Toronto's constabulary. Platt had said he'd mail what he had as soon as possible.

As I was talking, the Inspector's colour was changing faster than I could track. When I was done, he took a deep breath, the kind that normally announced one of his riotous rants.

Luckily for my ears, at that very instant, Armstrong knocked on the Inspector's door frame with a warrant to dig up James Gillies's body. The Inspector was quite satisfied with that fact, and we were spared his screed. He grabbed his hat and walking stick, then shouted "Murdoch!" across the bullpen. His spirits soured again when I informed him the Detective had left the station, but he stopped growling when I added Jones had accompanied him. The Inspector decided that he, Armstrong and Higgins would go to Mount Pleasant to unearth Gillies, or whoever it was in that tomb. He then tasked me to talk to Shoucair's widow.

We were about to leave the station when Worseley beckoned us by gesticulating while on the telephone. He was visibly panicked. "Sir, it's Jones calling from the call box at King and Yonge! Sir! It's Detective Murdoch! He's disappeared!"

Inspector Brackenreid's reaction was not very polite. To be fair, I agreed with him. My heart had sunk into my feet. I kind of felt faint.

He wrenched the telephone from poor Worseley and shouted to Jones to recount the whole story. I couldn't make out all the details from this side of the conversation, but by the increasing volume of the Inspector's voice, things were looking badly. All the lads had stopped what they were doing, waiting and fearing the worst. Worseley had said it: the Detective, one of ours, was now missing too.

The Inspector ordered Jones to stay put and he hung up. This time, Inspector Brackenreid's breath intake preceded not a rant, but an all call.

"All right lads! Listen up! You all know James Pendrick was kidnapped yesterday. Well, the same culprit has now taken Detective Murdoch. All we know right now is that the kidnapper is  
probably one James Gillies, who is a convicted murderer and an escaped prisoner. He is to be considered armed and dangerous. Further, he is scary smart. Now, Detective Murdoch was taken less than an hour ago, from Scott Street Lane. If we hurry, we might get some headway. Lads! We have to find both of them before it's too late! Are we clear?"

At the boys' affirmative response, the Inspector shouted at Armstrong and Taylor to go dig up Gillies and bring the body back to the morgue. He then ordered all the other constables currently present to follow him, including me, only leaving Hodge and Tiny Malone to man the station. Then we made our way on the double.

We had been having a rather warm Autumn so far, but about the time we left the station, the temperature had plummeted to just above freezing, reminding everyone that we were indeed at the end of November. The skies had turned grey and angry, and were now pelting the city with a mixture of rain and snow. Unpaved streets were fast turning to muck. I had a feeling that by the time we'd reach Scott Street Lane, what traces left by the Detective's abductor would be gone. I voiced my fear to the Inspector, who told me to remain positive. Since I know for a fact the man is no fool, my guess was that he too was trying to keep his own hopes up.

Unfortunately, I was right. Sure, the asphalt on Yonge Street was simply wet, but side streets were already a mess, made worse by the fact that it was just past five-thirty in the afternoon, and office workers were starting to flow by droves out of every building. When we reached Scott Street Lane, not only were our boots muddy, but Jones was near panic. He'd been asking the civilians to leave their places of employment through other exits, but to no avail. These office workers had been locked indoors since seven-thirty or eight, and were all hungry and eager to go home. Even if all the lads had gone to stand before the dozen or so doors facing the lane, we would have had to step all over the ground ourselves, over whatever trace the Detective's abductor might have left. My hand went straight to my mouth, and I felt my mood drop into the muck at my feet. The Inspector's cursing was expected, to say the least.

This said, the lads immediately proved how well the Detective had trained us. Without being ordered to do so, they began to systematically ask every civilian entering the lane if they had seen the Detective or heard anything untoward happen in the last hour. It was something to behold and it would have made him proud. While they were doing that, the Inspector directed me to follow him, to look at the ground for areas that had not been trampled. Just in case some trace remained. It was still raining, and soon the light would be going.

My hands were cold and my feet were wet inside my boots. It was quite miserable out, but I kept from complaining as I reminded myself two lives were at stake. Soon enough, we found the Detective's hat beside a pile of broken crates near the corner of Scott Street. Beside the crates were some wheel tracks, but they were only visible for a few feet.

"Crabtree. What can we deduce from all this?" the Inspector said, exuding purpose. I know I telegraphed my doubts, because he stated what had recently become his motto: "Come on Crabtree! Murdoch isn't the only one at the station who can think like Murdoch!" Which got me thinking, of course.

"Well, the tracks were so very near the Detective's hat, the two may very well be related... Could be from what was used to ferry the... likely unconscious Detective away from here," I said. Pointing, I added, "If so, well, the... contraption... turned east on Scott Street."

"Contraption?" The Inspector looked more than dubious. I needed to explain myself.

"Yes, sir. It's just we can't tell how many wheels the... contraption... has. It could be a wheelbarrow or a push cart or a small trolley…"

"Right, right, " the Inspector nodded. "I guess it's what we need to ask the local citizenry about, then."

And ask we did, the shopkeepers and merchants that were locking up, the office workers stepping out. We soon discovered that what the said-contraption had been was a simple four-wheeled flat cart, owned by a tall fat fellow named Roderick McCain. The man was known by all in the area as a journeyman working for pennies, loading and moving merchandise for the many neighbouring businesses. Most often, it was Copp, Clark and Company, next street up, on Front. Except that this time, Roderick McCain had been pushing an empty cart.

A false lead, then.

"What do we do now, Inspector?"

The Inspector had formed a plan, I could see it on his face. "We leave a few men to continue canvasing the area. You and I and the rest go back to the station. Let's pool all the information we have. Suss out the small details."

"So you think we should be more 'Murdoch-y', sir."

The Inspector's face contorted in disapproval of my turn of phrase, but stayed silent. Besides, I agreed with him. We needed to pool together, both our information and our brains. With all the details the lads had gathered since yesterday, maybe, just maybe, a pattern would emerge. That's how Detective Murdoch solved crimes, wasn't it?

So, when we entered Station House no 4, I went to the Detective's office and rolled his blackboard into the bullpen. The Inspector asked everyone to pull out their notebooks, and handed a sheath of legal-sized paper to Higgins, with instructions to write everything that would be said. He'd also brought out his files from his office. When he took a chalk stick in his hand, we were all ready. "All right, I believe we now have a full timeline of the events since yesterday morning." He started writing.

It took most of the evening, well past shift change. Once a constable had finished sharing his findings, he'd stepped out to get food for others. Strong tea flowed readily, and not a drop of alcohol was in sight. I explained how I thought the Detective must have been taken right after talking with Jake. I didn't mention the boy by name, but I did admit to having facilitated their meeting for Detective Murdoch, and that I was sure Jake could be trusted. Evidently, the Detective had presumed himself safe at the time too. This meant the Detective had either been betrayed by someone else or followed into the alley.

The night shift gave their information as each came in, same for the lads left working around Scott Street Lane. Perkins and Irving had finished their canvassing as well. I have to say, their news was the most welcomed of the evening, even as it was disheartening now that the Detective was gone. They had indeed found information on the circumstances surrounding James Pendrick's disappearance, as well as reconstructed the route taken by the mysterious dun-coloured horse, from St. David's Street onward. The cart had truly meandered: south on Sackville, west on Sydenham, then through laneways toward Power, going south, east on King, again through laneways, emerging on Cherry northbound, then west on Front, north on Church, to the corner of Colbourne, turning again heading south. The lads had lost their trace at that location, due to witnesses having gone home for the night. No one thought it a coincidence that Perkins and Irving had met up with the other lads investigating the Detective's kidnapping in the neighbourhood. They'd actually come back to the station house together. Tomorrow, we were going to have to look in that part of the city.

Now, everyone at the station took the Detective's abduction personally. Not that Mr. Pendrick was less important — he was a friend of the constabulary too in a way — but Detective Murdoch was one of us. Taking him hurt us all. We were resolute. Not only had no one pulled out a flask, but I could see through the Inspector's office windows that his scotch was probably locked in his cupboard. We were being 'Murdoch-y'.

It was ten pm by now, so Mr. Pendrick had been missing for thirty-six hours, the Detective for about five. The worrying part was that he's abducted from Scott Street Lane at a time it would have been occupied, but witnesses had yet to come forward. I was still uncomfortable with all the unknowns in the timeline, but we had made arrests leading to convictions with just as many guesses in the past. At ten-thirty pm, the Inspector asked if anyone had anything to add to the meeting.

"I do," said a frankly disheveled Dr. Ogden, who was briskly walking into the station carrying several files. She was putting on a braver face than I could, that much was true, but I'd never seen her this frazzled.

The Inspector frowned at her appearance, but it was not time to comment: "Doctor, er, good, you are here. If you please," stepping away from the blackboard.

Dr. Ogden's face tightened in a way that made her look much older than she was, though I said nothing, of course. I'm a gentleman. Nevertheless, I pulled a chair for her, which she took readily, thanking me.

"Here goes. I can confirm that the man we disinterred was not James Gillies. He had a large brain tumour in the left temporal lobe. It was likely not yet debilitating, but it would have been painful and he would have known he was dying."

"This fits with what we know about Robert Shoucair," the Inspector remarked.

"Indeed, it does. I am certain it is Shoucair I autopsied tonight."

"I'll interview the widow tomorrow to confirm it."

Several of us nodded and Dr. Ogden continued, "Earlier today, I was given access to James Gillies's and Robert Perry's police files, their prison files from Don Jail, as well as the psychological evaluations the Crown had ordered at Detective Murdoch's suggestion before the trial. I examined the files with Dr. Roberts's assistance. What we found was illuminating. And quite frightening, frankly." She visibly shuddered. Under normal circumstances, I would have offered her a sip of my flask. The Inspector beckoned her to continue.

"First, I must say that Mr. Perry was always a mere pawn for Mr. Gillies, ever since their murder of Professor Bennett. Had he not actively participated in the crime, I would have declared him a victim. He was manipulated by Gillies in such a way that I doubt he could have successfully resisted Gillies's influence." She let the pronouncement sink in a second. "I would suggest that he is not currently an actor in William's and James's abductions, for the simple reason that Gillies expressed a wish to murder him in court when he realized Perry had made a deal with the Crown for a shorter sentence. I would not be surprised if we find his corpse sometime soon." She then silently shook her head a couple times, before she spoke again.

"Gentlemen, there is no doubt in my mind that Gillies kidnapped James Pendrick in order to enact revenge on William. Gillies is a vindictive man. His calculating mind, as evidenced by the letters he's sent, combined with his displeasure at losing what he considers a personal challenge, leads me to deduce he will hurt Mr. Pendrick physically. He wants to William to feel despair and loss."

Higgins used the Doctor's slight pause to interrupt. "I don't get it. Why kidnap Mr. Pendrick if it's  
the Detective he hates? I know the Detective rooms there, but…"

Because they're in love, you dummy!, I wanted to shout. But I didn't voice it. Rather the Doctor spoke. Or rather she lied. Just a little.

"Because, Henry, he is one of William's closest friends. They share interests. William assists Mr. Pendrick in his inventions. But it very well could have been me or George that were taken. I'm guessing Gillies took James simply because William lives at his house. It was easier to spy on both of them at the same time than it would have been to spy on me separately than on William, for example."

Higgins nodded silently. I'd always been impressed by Doctor Ogden's intelligence and bravery. In times like these, I couldn't help but think how the Constabulary's unwillingness to hire women was our loss.

The Inspector broke the short silence: "Is there anything else, Doctor?"

"Yes, one more thing. I see on the board that you are focussing your investigations on Scott Street. I would venture that Gillies has established his base of operations somewhere close. A few turn of phrases in his statements indicate to me that he prefers familiar surroundings for his criminal activity. This allows him a measure of control, which contributes to his feelings of superiority."

"So we need to focus our attention to that part of the city."

"Yes, Inspector, but do so discreetly. I have no doubt Gillies has the area under surveillance, as evidenced by William's abduction. We must not underestimate him."

"All right, that means civilian clothes."

"It is most likely Gillies is keeping William close, since he is the primary victim. It's also possible James Pendrick is also nearby, but he could just as well be kept in a secondary location."

"But if we catch Gillies and rescue Murdoch, our chances of finding Pendrick are that much better."

Dr. Ogden got up, nodded to me, bid the Inspector goodnight, adding she would be found at the morgue. As she left wordlessly, I noticed she had been wearing the same dress yesterday. Two of her friends were missing too.

At that point, the Inspector looked us over and sent the day shift home with orders to be back at six the next morning with our day clothes. The station emptied itself very slowly. We were all exhausted, but a lot of us seemed to be lingering in the station anyway. Higgins had not moved from his desk, seemingly proofreading his notes, while Taylor had taken another sheet of paper, propping it on the chair liberated by Dr. Ogden, and was copying the charts from the blackboard. I decided to stay at the station as well. I wanted to ponder on the leads a bit more too, hoping to be useful. I figured I could get a few hours back in the cells later, as several others would be doing, no doubt. If the Inspector called me on it, I would remind him he hadn't left the station since yesterday either and he'd slept on his office's Chesterfield last night.

What an ugly business.

I did manage a couple hours of sleep, past midnight, but I didn't go home. I had a change of civilian clothes in the break room upstairs anyway. I wasn't worried about Violet; I knew my neighbours at my boarding house would walk and feed her. They loved my dog as much as I did. So I remained at the station.

In the quiet hours, when the beat sergeants were walking in and out of the station to write their reports on their assigned coppers, I got to thinking I might make it easier to begin our search in the morning if I tightened things up a bit at the station. I started with Henry's desk. It was still covered with fingermark cards and Bertillon measurement sheets. I made quick of storing them alphabetically in their respective boxes and binders. I then made a proper file box with the notes he'd taken last night; I added my own notes, and I also copied the timeline of the letters Mr. Pendrick had received, the one the Detective had drawn on the first day. It seemed so long ago now. The letters themselves were still in the Inspector's office, I remembered, so I'd add them later. I needed to get the handkerchief from Dr. Ogden at some point. And the cylinder of course from the Detective's player. I made a list of missing elements and placed it on top of the box. Thinking about the letters, it dawned on me the Detective had not looked at his own mail since yesterday morning, so far as I knew. What if there was another one?

I all but ran to the mail slots behind the station's front desk. The detective's was quite full. I decided to take care of it in his office. The Inspector caught my gaze as he was coming down the stairs with a cuppa and he nodded when I raised the pile of envelopes slightly. It was a relief to have permission to do this, at least. I decided to stand behind the Detective's desk; I couldn't imagine sitting in his seat.

I was always amazed by the amount of mail he got, more than the Inspector on some days. Anyway, most were messages from other stations, the mayor's office, Crown attorneys, summons to appear in court and the like. There were two personal letters with return addresses. One from a lady in Etobicoke and another from Sgt. Linney in Vancouver. A third letter brought me dread.  
It was the same white envelope, addressed with a typewriter, but there was no deckled card inside; just a photograph. And what a frightful sight it was. Plain as day, the picture showed a man's left shoulder and chest from the front, with a gaping wound just above the breast. In the shape of a heart. Gillies had carved a heart into that man's chest and pealed the skin away. I could see muscle. I turned my head away, I couldn’t look at it. It's not that the wound itself was that terrible. I'd seen week-old corpses often enough to be used to the gore. No, it was the meaning of the wound that was too awful to bare. I couldn't tell if it was the Detective or Mr. Pendrick, since the face was off frame. To think of it, though, it couldn't have been the former, since the letter had been delivered before he'd beed taken last night. No, this must have been Mr. Pendrick. I swear I thought I was going to faint like a girl, right there on the spot. But I straightened myself out, thinking that if the Detective had managed keeping a clear head, more or less, while the love of his live was missing, the least I could do was the same for the two of them.

I couldn't let anyone see it except for the Inspector. It was too... horrible... and the lads would ask questions. In a way, I was grateful the Detective hadn't seen it at all. I couldn't imagine his reaction. So, keeping the photograph against my uniform, I walked into Inspector Brackenreid's office.

"How bad, Crabtree?"

"Bad, sir," I said, as I gave him the ghastly image.

I had expected the Inspector to burst into a litany of curses, but none came out. He just sat hard on his chair and ran a hand over his face. "Do you think it's..." He looked at me like he was lost.

"No sir. Considering when it was posted... I think it's Mr. Pendrick."

Again, I was met with silence and then a long sigh. I really hoped for a rant, right about now, but what I got was a low, almost solemn declaration: "We find them today, Crabtree. It ends today. I don't care how many bloody doors we have to break, how many skulls we have to crack. We find them today."

"I couldn't agree more, sir. I'll go put the kettle on."

After that, I continued my tidying and my filing for a while, trying not to think about what the photograph meant.

Not long before six am, Constable Hodge arrived. He was bleary-eyed but in an apparent good mood, the lucky man. His arms were laden with food tins and paper bags. I rushed to help him. Climbing the station stairs, he explained, "After I told Caroline last night that we'd be called in early on a Sunday, she decided to make sure the lads would have breakfast." Thanking him (and the heavens) for his wife, I helped him set up the food in the break room, starting another kettle while at it. There was bread and jam and butter and eggs, fried pork strips and mackerel, muffins... for at least a dozen men if not more. It must have cost a fortune! So I made sure there was a kitty for contributions on the table, making it clear we were all going to reimburse the man. As the boys were filing into the station, I spread the word; I didn't want to catch anyone failing to put in a penny or two. Myself, I couldn't shake the blasted image from my mind, so I only ate some toast Briscoe made on the stove for everyone. I couldn't stomach more. When the Inspector came up to see what the ruction was about, however, he ate some too. Then he put in a whole 5¢ in the kitty, made a show of it, stating it was all good for morale. That much was true.

So much so that when we gathered again in the bullpen later, the atmosphere was sizzling. Last night, we'd been resolute but also kind of in shock. As the evening had worn on, fear for our colleague, even of bit of discouragement, had set in. This morning, however, none of those negative feelings were to be felt. Station House no. 4 was ready for action. We knew where Gillies was, roughly. We knew he thought himself better than us. And we knew that he was wrong about that. It was only a matter of time before we found him. We were going to solve this today.

That was the gist of the Inspector's speech to the men. He sent five constables in dingy civilian clothes back to the warehouse district with orders to mingle and observe as discreetly as possible. Now, on account of it being Sunday, being discreet was going to be tricky, since all businesses were supposed to be closed on the Sabbath. They were to look for a man or woman fitting Gillies's description, any unusual merchandise movement, anything that looked strange, and report it. He also sent Perkins and Irving back there to walk the beat as uniformed coppers, asking about the case more overtly. Maybe these two would actually get some useful information, but the Inspector was hoping they would act as a distraction for the boys undercover.

It was a risky plan. The lads could reveal their hand without knowing, especially considering Gillies's blasted intellect. I knocked on the wood of my desk for chance, and Higgins knocked on my head for the same reason. I let him. The Inspector found no humour in it, though, and he ordered us to fetch the fire insurance maps and the city directories. Higgins and I were to get the lay of the land. Maybe by cross-referencing this information, we could pinpoint Gillies's location on our end. We had a couple hours before it would be polite to call on a lady, so I still had time before accompanying the Inspector to visit Mrs. Shoucair.

Higgins and I worked well together. As much of a pain in the backside he was at times, we made a good team. We cleared a large space on our desks and I spread the map across, using whatever was on hand to immobilize the corners. We then set out to identify all the unoccupied spaces within a five block radius of Scott Street Lane. Some of us were going to visit each of these places today, to check if Gillies was there. We also looked at the names of owners, renters, lodgers and occupants in the same area, to see if anyone rang a bell. Unfortunately, none did. That was why Higgins made a note to speak to Urquhart, Gillies's solicitor, to check if he had access to a location in the Warehouse district. Had it not been Sunday, I would have called on my source at the Municipal Records Office too. Because if there was a place one could easily hide a body in Toronto, it had to be in one of those large buildings, dark and dirty and cluttered as they were. I was quite confident we were on the right track.

By the time eight-thirty rolled around, it was time to get going. And Higgins got permission to fetch Mr. Urquhart at his home. "Wake him up, if you have too. I want him here when I come back," the Inspector had said, a definite glint in his eye. On a Sunday like this, he wanted to speak with Mrs. Shoucair before she left for church. Inspector Brackenreid wanted us to be at our query before nine, so I pushed the station's horse to a swift trot, and the streets were mercifully empty.

As it turned out, Mrs. Shoucair was still at home when we arrived. She made for a sorry sight though, in full mourning dress while so heavily pregnant. I remained silent, while the Inspector was respectful, solicitous even, and we finally confirmed our original deductions.

"We didn't know what to do," she told us, devastated. "l am with child, and the doctor told Bobby he had less than a year to live. He was hurting, and it was only getting worse. Then Mr. Gillies made a proposal."

"And your husband accepted," the Inspector said, in the kindest of voices.

"I didn't like it, but we knew he was going to die."

"How much money did Gillies give you?"

"Three thousand dollars in cash," she answered, her face showing sudden panic. "You're not gonna take it, are you? My husband died for that money."

Both the Inspector and I shook our heads vehemently. "No, ma'am. We're not going to confiscate your money." Her face flushed in relief. After a beat, he added, "I just need to know how you received it. Tell us, did you meet Gillies?"

"No. His wife brought it to me in a suitcase. I still have it. The suitcase, I mean. We put the money in the bank."

Inspector Brackenreid and I shared a look. His wife, hey? Mrs. Shoucair was taken aback at our reaction. "Is that strange?" she asked.

The Inspector sat back in the chair she'd offered him, but I spoke in his stead. "What did this woman look like, Mrs. Shoucair?"

"Tall, not very attractive. Done up like a doxy, if you ask me."

"Blond?"

"Yes, sir. Curly."

That was it, then. Gillies had delivered the money himself, dressed as a woman. The man truly had no scruples. Since we were done, we offered to drive Mrs. Shoucair to church, then returned to the station, with the suitcase she no longer wanted in her house.

To my surprise, Constable Rafferty was at the station. Though technically still on leave, he'd heard of Detective Murdoch's abduction from his wife, who'd learned about it from Jones's wife, and he'd decided to show up to work a day early to help out. The Inspector sent him to lift fingermarks on the luggage. Dotting the i's, I suppose.

Higgins had also just escorted a rather livid Mr. Urquhart into the interrogation room, so the Inspector proceeded to cross the t's. I perched myself behind the grilled observation window. I didn't want to miss the show. And what an enjoyable show it was. The Inspector didn't even say hello when he barged in.

"So, Mr. Urquhart, would you mind explaining how your client James Gillies is still alive and not six feet under like he's supposed to?" The Inspector was circling the lawyer like a vulture, and the old toff started bumbling. I loved every minute.

"I beg your pardon, sir? I witnessed young Mr. Gillies's execution! It is not something one forgets!"

"Really? Are you sure? Because we dug up the man in Gillies's grave. A man called Robert Shoucair. Not Gillies."

"That is not possible, sir. I protest! I will not stand for such nonsense!" The lawyer meant to stand.

"Sit down, Urquhart!" The Inspector bent low, close to the lawyer's ear. "I don't know how you did it yet, but I know you helped your client escape the noose. And you are going to tell me."

"I did nothing of the of the sort! I swear!"

It was fascinating to see. Urquhart's face was as white as a sheet, but his neck was bright red, and his ascot was bobbing at his throat like it had a life of its own. Then the Inspector got even closer to the man's face and I thought the chap would faint.

"How. Did. You. Help. Gillies. Escape?"

After a beat, the barrister slumped in the chair. We had won.

"Very well."

The Inspector stepped back a few paces, but continued to stare: "I'm listening."

"Firstly, you must believe me, I had no direct part in his escape..." The Inspector growled, but the lawyer continued, "...Truly! I had my suspicions. Especially, when he asked me to find Robert Perry's address a few months ago. I knew he still held ill will toward the boy. Who was not easy to find, actually. His family had cut all ties after the trial."

"I see. So you provided him with the address of his next victim. That's not a point in your favour, sir."

"Let... let me finish! He also asked me to empty his personal account, in cash." 

The Inspector started circling again. "Go on."

"I had specific instructions. Get the money. Place it in a deposit box at Union Station. Leave the key at the reception desk at the Empire Hotel."

"Well, well. That sounds like aiding and abetting to me. Don't you think? I'd easily make it stick in a court of law."

If anything, Urquhart sunk even lower in his chair. I repressed a laugh that I couldn't quite feel bad about. But then the lawyer's demeanour suddenly changed. The man couldn't have been so pathetic as he had seemed to have kept Gillies alive for a year and a half in appellate court. In the end, like any solicitor I've ever met, he was more interested in his own hide than his client. He straightened himself. "I will tell you all I know if you keep me out of it."

The Inspector was not impressed, still circling: "What do you have for me that could possibly convince me to look the other way?"

"I know the name of his accomplice." The Inspector simply raised his eyebrows. "Er... Her name is Sally Pendrick. I helped them exchange letters for a time. He would dictate the messages to me and I would send them to her barrister in Montreal. Who would read them to her, take note of her responses and mail them to me. Then, suddenly there were no more letters from her. That's when I knew she was probably out of prison, lying in wait. Look into Sally Pendrick. She is the key."

Inspector Brackenreid and I exchanged a nod through the window of the interrogation room. Terence Meyers had told us Sally Pendrick was dead. As slimy as the man was, I could not imagine why he would lie to us about that. She had double-crossed him, caused the death a host of people, and risked national security. If he said she hanged, than she was surely dead.

As I entered the interrogation room to bring Urquhart to the cells, the Inspector clapped a hard hand on the man's shoulder. "I'm sorry, old chap, but I'm afraid you've been had. I'm sure you'll enjoy prison. It's full of people like you."

The lawyer protested all the way to the cells. I'd escorted hundreds of people there in my time at Station House no. 4, but this was surely the most pleasure I'd ever gotten from it. We had all we needed now, except the exact location. It was just past ten-thirty am. Mr. Pendrick had been gone forty-eight hours, the Detective fourteen. We were this close to getting them back. They were as good as found.

Provided they were alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Don't you love Crabtree? He's the best. He deserved a little POV.
> 
> 2\. If you have not noticed by now, I am using Canadian spelling. It's a Canadian story after all.
> 
> 3\. Roderick McCain is my own invention. He's the only one in the entire fic, with one lady later.
> 
> 4\. If you are interested in looking at the neighbourhood the constables are investigating, just google "Goads Atlas of Toronto" for 1899 and take a look at Plate 4.
> 
> 5\. Those familiar with the show will recognize dialogue from 5x11, Murdoch in Toyland.


	4. Day 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday
> 
>  
> 
> [Finalized version, 21 July 2018]

Waking felt like swimming up from darkest ocean depth. He made his way slowly to the surface, reaching for light and air, expecting to brake waves but only finding cold.

His mind felt sloshy. He was in a dark place. No, not true: his eyes were opened. Rather his vision was blocked. Trying to look around, he realized his head was immobilized, a strap tight over his forehead. Concentrating on tactile sensations, he deduced he was wearing some sort of motorist goggles with the glasses blacked out.

He was sitting in a chair, wooden by the feel under his hands, bound by the wrists, chest, thighs, and ankles. Shaking from side to side revealed he was truly trussed and that the chair was likely bolted down. His trouser seat was wet. He'd urinated on himself, obviously. How long had he been unconscious? Certainly more than eight hours if his bladder had emptied against his will. His limbs were aching for movement. How long since the chloroform? More importantly, where was he?

Tapping his foot, the sound told him the floor was made of crude wood boards, or unvarnished wood at any rate. Tapping again revealed the room he was in was small, closed in. It was humid and cold. The air was stale, infused with an unfamiliar chemical smell, acrid, not quite like vinegar. What sounds he made were muffled as they reverberated, but not as if absorbed by draperies. Another material then, the source of the odour, perhaps? But what, he could not tell. There were no other sounds. He was alone.

"Gillies! Where are you?" he called out, his voice rougher than he had anticipated. "Gillies! I know you're here!"

Somewhere behind him, Murdoch heard muted foot falls, then the sound of a stiff curtain, a membrane, parting. Then he heard the soft giggle that had haunted his every moment for the past two days.

"Gillies."

"Detective Murdoch. Finally awake." The fiend's voice oozed arrogance and pride. "I had almost given up on you." The man was delighted by Murdoch's predicament, his voice left no doubt.

This was a game Murdoch had no intention of playing. "Where is James Pendrick?"

"Direct as ever, as see," Gillies said. He slowly walking around the Detective's chair. Footfalls clear, from thick leather soles. Even blinded as he was, Murdoch could almost see the smirk on his kidnapper's face, that slight curl of lip, that spoke of a convinced sense of superiority.

"Where is he?"

"Oh, Detective," his abductor drawled. "So impatient. I'd have thought you'd appreciate our reunion a little more."

Murdoch could find no patience. "Where!?!" He barely recognized the sounds that escaped his throat. All the anger, frustration, fear of the last two days exploded from his mouth.

Gillies sighed and resumed circling. At Murdoch's renewed growling, the criminal tisked. Stopping before his prisoner, a few inches from his face, he breathed, "He's not far." Walking again. "He's certainly more patient than you!"

As infuriating as the past few minutes has been, the fiend had revealed key information. The room was indeed small, but it was only part of a bigger space, divided by unknown expanses of material. The latter was insulating, more of sound than of temperature. Gillies was most likely alone, save for himself and James. Yes, his lover was in the building, maybe even behind one of the stiff partitions. Yet, the near complete silence around them did not bode well; James may be bound like he was and unconscious, or he could even be dead. He would not entertain the letter possibility.

"What do you want from us?"

"From you, Mr. Murdoch? Quite simple, really. I only want retribution, a chance to even the score. I hate being bested."

Gillies resumed prowling his way around the Detective. Clearly an intimidating tactic, which was somewhat working. Murdoch felt confused, scared and fuming all at once. Not himself.

"Show yourself, Gillies. I am well and truly bound. There is no reason to keep me blinded."

"Oh, but what fun is that?" The man giggled again. "I so very much enjoy seeing you vulnerable. It's fitting, really," he added before running a finger on his prisoner's left cheek. Murdoch stiffened, eliciting another dreaded giggle.

After a beat, Gillies huffed, "Very well. You may look at me."

The young devil then drew very near, smelling of faded soap, damp closets and stale tea, pulling down the goggles from the Detective's face. Locking eyes, he whispered almost tenderly, "Hello there, Mr. Murdoch. Happy now?"

Gillies was so very close, blocking his view of the room. William's first instinct was to reach forward and bite done on the villain's nose, but the abrupt lurch turned his stomach, which rolled as he jerked, the world tilting. A drug was still active in his body, but which he didn't know. He breathed in, reeling in his emotions, pulling his logic to the fore. His view limited, he willfully avoided the criminal's eyes, and set his gaze around Gillies's face. Frustrated by his immobilized head, he felt his neck muscles bunch at the strain.

There was a single light bulb hanging at the very edge of his vision to the left. Indeed, they were inside an enclosure within a larger room, made of thick rubber sheets nailed into the wood-planked ceiling. It was cold, though not quite freezing, indicating less than ideal insolation. A stable, a barn? There were no animal smells though.

Gillies chuckled yet again, gazing almost fondly. "I do very much enjoy watching you think, Detective. Your mind is beautiful to me." He walked back a few feet from his victim. "You  
are of course wondering where you are. I'm not telling you yet."

He was to guess, then. So be it. He would go past a sudden wave of thirst and the continued discomfort. Use you detecting skills, he reminded himself. In the absence of obvious noises and any animal smells, he confirmed his initial dismissal of a livery or stable. Considering he was taken from Scott Street Lane, in a teaming part of the city, in plain day, odds were he was near his abduction site. Meaning he was most likely either close to or in the Warehouse district. The distant gangling bells of a tramway car confirmed his hypothesis. He was still in the city, indeed, and there were windows somewhere to his left, behind the rubber membranes.

His staring leftward made Gillies positively giddy, hands deep in his trouser pockets, practically dancing in place. Murdoch ignored him.

Rubber. The whole room was covered in it. Gillies had used rubber belts to bind him on the chair and thick sheets to divide the space they were in, obscuring sights and sounds. Where would he have acquired such large quantities of the material? Then the answer became obvious. Of course, there was only one possibility.

"We are in the Canadian Rubber Company building, on Front Street. Under the rafters."

Gillies exclaimed his joy, satisfaction in his eyes, clapping his hands: "Bravo, Detective! Bravo! I knew you would figure it on your own." The fiend was walking again, practically strolling around him. "I admit, you took me by surprise when you showed up on my doorstep yesterday. I'd calculated you'd find me today, as I was going to send the final clue this morning. Which I didn't send, of course; there was no need. I must congratulate you. Well done, Detective."

Having determined where he was and part of the circumstances of his abduction, Murdoch wanted out of this game. His lover was nowhere in sight. 'Near' Gillies had said. "Where is James Pendrick?"

"Such impatience. But I guess it's to be expected, considering," he said, stopping as if to consider a point. "I have to say, you surprised me greatly, Detective. A staunch Roman Catholic like you cavorting with a man? I did not think it possible."

"Answer me!" he shouted, instantly regretting it as the world tilted again for an instant. Gillies took no notice.

"I so wanted to meet this other 'James' in your life. To see if he compared favourably to me."

Murdoch refused to reflect on what the villain had just said, but reluctantly admitted that no amount of prodding would entice Gillies in revealing anything on a schedule than that of his choosing. William had to let the man ramble on until the answer came. His patience would no doubt be tried all the more.

"Let me tell you, Detective, when Sally Pendrick sent me those letters, describing how her dear husband had perverted you... You, of all people! Taken you to his bed! Haha! I could scarcely believe it. And yet it was true. William Murdoch had become a sodomite! What a world we live in, Detective!”

"Oh and the plans she had for you two! The horrible things she wanted you to suffer! Thankfully, she was not as resourceful as I am. She could not escape her fate, the poor dear."

Gillies knew Sally had been executed. It could only mean he had had access to official, legal information. Perhaps his solicitor had acted as a go-between for his client? Had he facilitated his flight as well? "Yet you did escape, Mr. Gillies."

"Of course, I did, Detective. You would expect nothing less of me. Neither of us would ever give up on this wonderful game we share, you and I? Besides, how could I get my recompense against who had bested me? I had no other recourse but to escape the noose. You should be flattered. I did it all for you."

This man was truly obsessed, more so than Sally had even been. Where she had been vindictive and vicious, Gillies simply sounded insane, convinced that they had some sort of connexion, a delusion of closeness between them.

"Then if this is all for me, abide by my wishes. Tell me where James is?"

The younger man stopped to stare at the Detective. Sighing, his face turned into a veritable pout. Was that disappointment in his eyes?

"As I said, very near," he answered. "I must commend you in your choice of lover, William. Can I call you William? Sally Pendrick did not do him justice, I must say. He possesses a much keener mind than I anticipated. And his resistance, his stamina, is impressive. He's held up quite well in captivity. Though, he is starting to smell a bit."

"What have you done to him? You hurt him, I know."

Gillies dismissed the comment with a wave. "Oh, hardly. He put up a brave fight, that's true, but he was easy enough to subdue. I roughed him up a bit, of course. I wanted him to look good for the picture I sent you. Did you like my letters, Detective?"

Murdoch would not let himself be goaded. He was still missing some key information. No doubt, the entirety of Toronto's Constabulary would be looking for him. But, how long would it take them to find their quarry could not be estimated without knowing how long exactly he had been insensate. Redirecting the conversation was needed.

"Tell me, how long was I unconscious?"

The detestable pout was back. "All right, all right! You won't play with me, then fine! You were unconscious for nearly twenty hours. It is mid-afternoon on the Sunday. Happy?"

"How did you manage that? Chloroform doesn't act that long." Nor does it leave one as dizzy and numb as he still felt.

"No, of course. I injected you with heroin. No doubt you mouth feels rather pasty. It's a common side effect, I'm told. I must say, calculating the correct dosage to keep you sedated without killing you was quite difficult. But thankfully, there is a rather handy scale here I could use to measure your weight. Had to inject you thrice. I have more than enough, obviously, though I had planned to only keep you unconscious for a few hours originally. You waylaid my plans admirably, Detective."

Murdoch could not think of a retort. He found he did not care. Having missed twenty hours, it was likely that the noose was tightening around Gillies. He trusted his men. They would know the area he was taken from and Jones would bear witness to it. Unless the constable was dead as well. He doubted it; Gillies would have relished in conveying such a fact as murder. No, the Inspector was surely leading a citywide hunt by now. He was confident constables would be breaking every door along Front street as soon as they got a judge to sign a warrant. The Canadian Rubber Company was a well-known, central building on one of the busiest street corners in Toronto. On a Saturday afternoon, there would have been hundreds of citizens around. Surely, someone witnessed his plight. Even on a Sunday, the trams' bells could be heard every few minutes, despite the stores being closed. He reminded himself James was near. That meant in this very building or one close by.

Murdoch was broken out of his thoughts by Gillies reappearing inches from his face.  
"I don't like being ignored, Detective. Dreaming about your lover, are you?" The fiend then moved back, huffing. "I see there is no taunting you now. Oh, well. Would you like to see him?"

Taking a breath, Gillies pre-empted his next sentence: "Ask nicely!" he said, wagging a finger.  
Murdoch centered himself. The villain's arrogance demanded compliance? So be it. 

"I would like to see Mr. Pendrick, please. May I?"

Gillies stood back and almost twirled in delight. The chuckle returned. "Ha! Finally!" He stepped close to the where two membranes met, directly in front of where Murdoch's chair was affixed. "Since you asked so politely, Detective."

Murdoch steeled himself has the curtains were parted. He expected blood.

Of which there was surprisingly little.

James was slumped, unmoving but visibly breathing, in an identical wooden chair, also bolted to the floorboards. He was shoeless, in his shirt sleeves, tied by thick rubber straps, cinched tight not only around his arms and legs, but also crossed over his chest. His head was not immobilized, though his eyes and ears were completely covered with what looked like heavy layers of plastered cloth, stuck to his skin and hair. The bruises and split lip were visible around the blindfold. William called out his name, but he did not respond.

"Oh, dearest Detective, he can't hear you. As you can see, I have rendered your lover blind and deaf. Not permanently, of course. I would not be that cruel."

William called out again, more loudly, even if he knew it was likely in vain. James's head then lolled around as though he was fighting sleep. His clothes torn in places, stains on his formally crisp white shirt. His trousers were visibly soiled from both urine and released bowels. The smell carried over. "Gillies, what have you done to him?"

The fiend's expression turned serious, then glacial. Murdoch knew instantly that if this had been chess, he would soon be presented with his opponent's endgame.

"Other than marring his pretty face, I have done very little harm. He is most likely suffering from thirst by now, but it could not be avoided. I have no intention of hurting him. Truly not. My goal was to get you to me. What harm does come to him will be entirely your doing, William." Gillies brushed his knuckles on James's jaw, making the man rear away as far as his bindings let him, mewling in fear.

William howled at the monster: "Do not touch him!"

"Now, now, don't worry, he is in no pain. Heroin is truly a wonder drug."

William could not endure any more of this. Fighting his bonds, he growled. "What do you want from us?"

"This is, to put it simply, an experiment." 

Gillies turned to face him directly, looking graver than William had ever seen him. The hateful smirk, the giddy eyes, were gone. What was left was the regard of a scientist facing the rat to be vivisected: cold, detached, superior. “I'm fascinated by the idea of love, Detective. What will a man sacrifice for the one he loves?” This was the endgame, then. “Doesn't every man tell his lover he would die for her? Or in your case, him? But how many truly would? Would you?” Kneeling beside James, Gillies gazed into his victim’s face. “I know you'd fight for him, to the death if necessary, but what would you give up to save his life? Your life? Your career? Yours and his freedom? What would you sacrifice? That is my experiment, Detective.”

Standing up again, he moved to pull on the rubber tarps, yanking hard on them, detaching them from the ceiling. They had hidden a large cast iron vat, hanging from the rafters directly over James, attached by hinges. A system of levers, pulleys and ropes snaked to the right, rigged to a large clock. The kind one would install on a public building. It was 3:43. Gillies picked up a box with a button-lever and moved toward Murdoch.

“You choice is simple, and you have until seven o’clock to make it. Which is preferable to you? Mr Pendrick’s continued living or your career and freedom. This toggle switch will trigger one of two things. You flip right, and this iron tub will drop one gallon of sulfuric acid on your lover. You know what that is?”

“Of course I do. It’s oil of vitriol.”

“Correct. Then you also know that the poor man will suffer immensely, maybe for days, until he dies of acid poisoning. On the other hand, you can flip left, and the tub does not turn over. Rather, a moving picture projector will turn on, spilling a very peculiar spectacle right on the next building’s outside wall. I’m sure you can guess what motion picture it’ll be showing, yes? I know you can.”

William’s stomach twisted painfully. Gillies had planned this trap in every detail. He’d fallen for it so easily. “James and myself on the back terrasse, two Sundays ago.”

“Such passion between the two of you! Now, before you start thinking no one of consequence would be on the street below on a Sunday evening, you’d be mistaken. I have arranged for a host of police officers to be around tonight. Believe me, the Constabulary will be given a remarkable display of your indecent behaviour, the likes of which will land both you and James Pendrick in prison for years. You’d likely never see each other again in this life.

“This is the choice I am giving you, Detective Murdoch. Would you preserve your reputation and career at the cost of your lover? Or do you love him enough to destroy everything you both hold dear in order to save his life?” The fiend stopped for a second then clicked his fingers: “Oh, and one more thing! Do not think you can simply wait this out. If you do not choose, at exactly seven o’clock, this vat will pour its contents onto your dear lover and the projector will turn on, regardless. You must choose, Detective. So, what will it be?”

The world began to spin and William’s breath failed him. The heroin was still affecting his reasoning and now he was facing an impossible choice. The cold seeping into his bones, his muscles spasming, there was no escape he could think of. What to do? He needed time. Looking at the clock, he had slightly more than three hours. Swallowing his fear, he sighed: “I'll let you know once I've decided.”

His response chased away Gillies’s somber attitude. The giddy, giggling villain was back in an instant. “Oh! We are going to have so much fun!” The man put the box down on the floor near the giant clock, gazed at his two victims with an almost fond smile, then left the same way he’d come.

“I’ll see you both later.”

A chilling thought to say the least.

Gillies disappeared behind the heavy membranes, and William could not take his eyes off his lover. True, his immobilized head prevented him from looking away, but he found he did not want to. Both he and James were alive, and in that alone there was hope, even if their immediate future looked grim.

Just over three hours left before their life as they knew it would be gone. One way or another. He wondered if James knew of Gillies's plan at all. Had he been told? The signs were he was heavily drugged. His right sleeve was unbuttoned and wrinkled, small blood stains visible on the fabric over the cubital fossa. The site of the injections, surely. Even if his lover were not artificially blinded, William thought he would probably be incoherent, from thirst as much as from the heroin. The man’s lips were chapped and his skin sallow. How William ached for those lips, had missed for three days! All he wanted was to take him into his arms and run. They had to get out, to escape. But how?

His bonds had no give. His wrists could twist but not budge. He barely could raise his shoulders. His own left cubital fossa hurt where Gillies had injected his blasted heroin. Despite his own thirst, he found he was regaining his wits, the anger burning the haze away. This led to a realization. The clock was loud; it ticked resoundingly. Yet he had not heard it prior to Gillies’s revelation earlier. He should have been able to hear it clearly from behind the rubber tarps. Just when had Gillies turned the clock on? Clearly, Murdoch could no trust it. There was no way to tell whether the device told true time or if it showed the correct hour. His own sense of time might be slightly better than the average man’s, but with the hunger, thirst and heroin, he could no longer trust himself either.

James’s breathing showed signs of becoming laboured. It would only get worse. No longer moving, head low, he seemed unconscious. Whatever time it was, it was running out.

Despair filled his lungs. Gillies truly had created the perfect trap. The letters, the pictures, the clues to lure his prey here. The devil might have thought Murdoch had found him early on the strength his deductive reasoning, but it had been pure coincidence that had brought him to Scott Street Lane. Now, he could not think of a way to escape his enemy’s claws. It looked like he had no other out than to seriously contemplate the despicable choice Gillies had given him. He could lose James to the most horrible death or he could lose James to prison and censure.

Murdoch shifted his gaze back to the floor, to the box controlling the hateful device. A simple wooden box, of approximately five cubic inches, with a glossy cherry varnish. The top showed a simple brass toggle switch, with two small brass plates with writing too small for him to read. He deduced they showed the two alternatives Gillies had put to him. From the controller, ran a braided cable, perhaps an inch thick, that snaked all the way behind the timing device, where he could just make out the outline of large gears. Other than the clock, the device was silent.  
The silence was suddenly broken by the grave rumbling of a motor. A very recognizable motor. The one so clearly heard on the cylinder now found in his office at the station. Even through the thick rubber, the machine was loud, no doubt it was on this very floor. Then, after perhaps two minutes, the machine stopped, with a rattle and a clank. What could it be? The next sound gave him his answer: the unmistakable squeaking of an accordion metal gate being pulled back. This was an elevator. Yes, indeed, the building had an elevator! This gave him true hope. All his colleagues had to do was find the notes on his work table and cross-reference them with the  
buildings near where he was taken! Yes! It would lead them, inevitably, to the Canadian Rubber Company building. He and James would be found!

“Come one, George! You can do this!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. You will surely recognize dialogue from episode 6x3 _The Murdoch Trap_.
> 
> 2\. No doubt most of you have also recognized the stratagem Gillies used in the _Murdoch Trap_, to keep William sedated for about 20 hours until his plans could be set in place. In the episode, set in 1901, Gillies mentions he used a new drug by Bayer to keep Murdoch under. Considering the timeline and his mention of killing dogs, he was most likely hinting to barbital, the precursor to phenolbarbital. This drug will not be synthesized until late that year and announced in 1902, so I could not use it here. Heroin, though, was readily available in 1899.
> 
> 3\. I have no wish to spoil, but let me just say that I had not heard about, nor seen episode 10x10 this chapter in 2017. I thought of heroin first. I thought of it months ago.  
> 4\. FYI, the cubital fossa is the crook of the elbow.  
> 5\. When I first wrote the chapter, I did not know if the Canadian Rubber Company building had an elevator. I just guessed. However, I later found a historical photo that clearly shows an elevator shaft from the rooftop.


	5. George Crabtree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday
> 
>  
> 
> [Finalized version 21 July 2018]

Just for once, I would have hoped, prayed, begged even, for a quiet Sunday. We’d needed a quiet Sunday.

Sundays were not usually busy for Station House no 4, and we were used to the relative Sabbath peace commonly falling over the neighbourhoods under our purview on the Lord’s Day. Sundays tended to be painfully boring, really. Not today, though. By the time noon had rolled around, the station had been flooded with calls about brawls, petty thefts, general disturbances and all around nuisances, all coming from Cabbagetown. It was as if the entire neighbourhood had suddenly fallen into fits of madness. I’m not prone to fanciful thoughts, but I could almost have believed these events had been orchestrated to distract the station’s constables away from our search for the Detective and Mr. Pendrick. To draw us away the Warehouse district.

Nevertheless, we’d all been brought on to bring some semblance of order to the place. Once I finally returned from a call about drunkenly behaviour, ― a rare event in Toronto, since alcohol was not sold on the Seventh Day ― dragging my swaying and stumbling charge toward the already quite occupied cells, I hoped I could return to finding our missing Detective. I could almost hear a clock ticking at the back of my mind. One that wouldn’t quiet.

Thinking about my next actions, wondering how to narrow down my search of where the Detective and Mr. Pendrick were being held, I barely evaded colliding with Inspector Brackenreid. The latter looked irate, red staining his cheeks, and I readied myself for a scolding that never came.

“Crabtree! There you are. Who’s manning the station’s phone line right now?” he said to me, with more determination than anger. I had not expected that question.

“Sir? Huh, Miss Chapman, sir, from the Ladies’ Auxiliary. She took over for Taylor, who went to help in Cabbagetown.” The Inspector quickly pouted then. It was no secret that he and the Miss did not like each other very much. Something about Mrs. Brackenreid’s brief stint in the Temperance Society, I think.

“Right,” He then said. “Go tell her to ring every Police phone in that neighbourhood and recall all but the coppers on their regular beats. I want everyone back.”

My relief must have shown because the Inspector cracked a rye smile. “I don’t know about you, Crabtree, but it all feels to me like we’ve been had. And we’re all happily running around like headless chickens over there, when we should be finding Murdoch.”

So I wasn’t the only one thinking along those lines. It was reassuring. “Do you think, sir, that all the troubles in Cabbagetown were somehow by design?”

“Yes, I do, Crabtree. Tell me. Has there been any fires or deaths?”

“No, sir.”  
“Any stabbings, shootings, attacks on women and children?”

“No, sir, though this one lady had to be taken to hospital after she was toppled by an apple cart when a brawling pair fell into it.”

“Right, exactly Crabtree. None of what’s happened around there is of any real consequence. All of those nuisances, all on a Sunday, within a two-hour period? My nose is telling me this is all a distraction.”

My nose agreed. “To prevent us from going back to Scott Street Lane...”

“Or delay us. It just doesn’t smell right, Crabtree. I would bet good money that Gillies is involved. Now go.” I turned to relay the Inspector’s orders to Miss Chapman, but he held up a hand and added, “Then, come join me in Murdoch’s office.”

When I came in, minutes later, the Inspector was scribbling on the blackboard, the chalk squeaking with every upwards stroke. Constable Jones was recounting every detail he remembered from last afternoon before the Detective was taken. The Inspector was asking him about sounds and smells. It was a place to start; certainly Jones hadn’t spoken about those details last night. I too thought back on it, remembering the muck as it stuck to my boots and the wet sleet on my shoulders.

Detective Murdoch habitually found clues in the unlikeliest of places. He had once had Higgins and me plot a shadow on a map in an attempt to identify the location of a dog murderer. True, the dog had turned out to never have died, but the truth of the matter was, with our help and the measuring of angles, we had found the scene of the would-be crime. And in the end, we had found the gas-masked terrorist, and it all had started with a shadow on a frame of film. If a sound could lead us to the Detective, I was all for it finding it.

I sat myself on Detective Murdoch’s work stool, glancing to the table for a clear corner to rest my elbow. The surface was as he’d left it, with books open and notes strewn about. He had been working on identifying the sound yesterday, had he not? Indeed, the recording cylinder ended with what sounded like some sort of motor. The Detective had obsessed over it to the exclusion of all else. We’d left him to it for more than an hour, there was no distracting him. Had he discovered the source before leaving for the bank yesterday? I picked a handwritten list, all but three entries crossed out.

“Sir, take a look at this.”

I’d interrupted Inspector Brackenreid but he did not seem to mind. “What have you got there?”

“Sir, these are Detective Murdoch's notes on the strange sound he was looking to identify. He was close, sir. He was looking into elevators, lifts, and warehouse cranes. Maybe if I take another listen, I could narrow it down further?”

The Inspector looked from Jones to the blackboard to me and back again, then told me it was worth a shot, since he wasn’t getting anywhere with Jones’s recollections. “Once we know what it is, we can find the kind of building Mr. Pendrick is held.”

I agreed and set about to turn the phonograph, when Jones of all people had the most brilliant thought.

“I’m sorry, sir, but aren’t we going about this the wrong way? We know Detective Murdoch could not have been taken far from Scott Street Lane, right? So why don’t we look to see which buildings on the lane have an elevator, a lift or a crane? There can’t be that many, can’t they?”

And wasn’t Jones right! The Inspector grabbed both of us by the arms and pulled us back into the bullpen, calling to Higgins as he was just walking back into the station. Slapping a hand on the Might city directory left open on my desk among the insurance maps, he bellowed, “Boys, find me all buildings with elevators and such in a three block radius from where Murdoch was taken. You have an hour. I want the names of all the building owners and managers. We’ll round them up if we have to.”

For the first time in, what, twenty hours, I had hope. I gave him the happiest “yes sir” I’d spoken in days. 

Unfortunately, the Wright city directory and the insurance maps were not as useful as we thought they’d be. After less than a quarter hour, it became obvious we’d have to telephone building managers and owners in order to learn which had elevating machines. Those whose cranes or elevator shafts had been added to the exterior of the buildings were sometimes visible on the maps, but any internal lifts were not shown. Nearly all the businesses in the area had the telephone, but no one manned the lines on a Sunday. We had to find another way. Jones suggested he, Higgins and I divide the gentlemen into two lists, those who had the telephone at home and those who didn’t. 

I was astounded by how many of them lived all the way across the city, more than half an hour away by tramway or coach from the station. We didn’t have time to scour all over town to call on them all, but we could at least try to speak with those who had the telephone. The day being warm and sunny again, a large number were not at home that afternoon. Higgins was fast losing patience and Jones was cursing ever louder whenever he was not using the line. I’m certain my own returning despair was showing. Time was running out, approaching three in the afternoon, and Jones’s seemingly great idea was not working out. We were making our way down the list alphabetically, with no success. The names were dwindling, until I was connected to Mr. J. H. Walker, manager of the Canadian Rubber Company, at his residence on St. Vincent Street. My heart soared as soon as he answered my question.

The Canadian Rubber building had an elevator. The Canadian Rubber building backed right onto Scott Street Lane.

Keeping Mr. Walker on the line, seeing the Inspector wasn’t in his office, I called out to him at the top of my lungs. In seconds, he was bounding down the stairs from the break room.

“Inspector!” I said, “I think we have it!” I said, “Sir, it’s Mr. Walker of the Canadian Rubber Company. They have an elevator, sir.”

The Inspector’s face lit up in recognition and grabbed the receiver out of my hand, leaving me holding the base like a chump until he remembered he needed to speak into the transmitter to be heard. Which he did while I was still holding it. After confirming what I had just explained, Inspector Brackenreid asked Walker to come to the station post haste, that we needed his help for a case that couldn’t be discussed on the telephone, that it was a question of life or death, that we needed the plans for his building. And then he hung up.

I was speechless. Higgins and Jones were blustering in disbelief. That was all? That’s all the Inspector was going to say? Then he breathed in for a shout: “All right, Brother Bungs! Listen up!” The entire station turned as one.

“It’s just past four o’clock. We think we know where Murdoch and Pendrick are being held.” At that, the lads moved to pick up their billy clubs, while Jackson and Worseley turned toward the armoury, but the Inspector stopped us all with a loud, “Oy! I want to break some idea-pots as much as you do, boys, but we can’t rush in there.” I admit, no one was agreeing with our superior there.

“We need a plan! James Gillies’s at least as intelligent as Murdoch. You mean us to risk the lives of our friends by running in there like a bunch of toss-pots?” As one, the station quieted. The Inspector was right, of course.

“They’re held at Canadian Rubber on Front Street. We don’t know where in the building, but it mustn’t be in one of the show rooms or offices. The company manager is coming here with the plans. Until then, I want all of you to put together your knowledge of the area. All structures, backhouses, side doors, alleys, hidey-holes, blinds, hangouts around Front Street and Scott Street Lane, beside, below and above buildings, on both sides of Yonge Street! I know the West side of Yonge belongs to Station House no 3, but I don't care. Gillies won’t care either. He’ll escape where ever he can. We need to know anywhere he can know. Clear?” We agreed as one. “Up to it!”

The Inspector went back to his office at that, picking up his telephone. The lads, all nineteen of us, formed a circle around my and Higgins’s desk. I picked up a pencil and started taking notes right on the insurance maps. Gillies would not be slipping away. We’d get our friends. Alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this fic, I'm assuming that the events of 6x6 Murdoch and the Cloud of Doom happened in the summer before the events described here.
> 
> You will also notice that Brackenreid's vocabulary turns to slang the more stressed and worried he is. Late 19th-century English slang is so much fun!


	6. Day 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday, continued
> 
>  
> 
> [Finalized 21 July 2018]

William had dozed despite himself. Other than his chest, his lover was almost deathly still. The clock had moved with what appeared to be normal speed and two hours had passed by its reckoning. He did not trust it, yet he sensed the sun was setting fast already, though he could not tell for the rubber sheets cutting any view from the windows. It was much colder in the room, positively nipping, and both their breaths were visible upon expiration. James’s breathing was indeed more laboured than before. A clear rattle was now heard at every inspiration. William knew that when Gillies chose to prance before them once again, he would have to make a choice. James was surely dying.

He would not let James die, but would they avoid prison? Likely not. For that matter, could they truly trust Gillies? This was the true crux of the matter, it seemed. Gillies had proposed to allow them to live if William chose to reveal their homosexuality to the world. Would the fiend be true to his word? His detecting mind remained dubious, but his instincts told him the monster told the truth. A life ruined, a lifetime of woe for them both, would be much more enjoyable for Gillies than the finality of a rotting corpse. No doubt, Gillies would not let William live free of consequences if he choose to kill his lover. Surely, he would ensure the detective who bested him would not be able to continue on regardless. Would he not?

No, the only logical solution, the only outcome that allowed for a sliver of hope was to choose the moving picture. Somehow, Gillies had rigged a projector in a visible enough location that those constables he boasted about would not miss the moving images of himself and James’s amorous activities on the terrasse. Even if those officers were from Station House no 4, upon entering the building and finding their missing men, they would have to place the couple under arrest. The evidence Gillies promised was incontrovertible.

Looking at his beautiful wounded lover, sat and trussed across the room, William ached. In at most two hours, they would be torn apart forever. If James survived passed tonight, William would never again nuzzle his golden hair, never taste his lips, his skin, never again hold him tight in the early morning. They would never make love again. They would never tinker, nor plan an outing, never spend hours loudly disagreeing on a theory, only to crumble in laughter for the pleasure of having each other to disagree with. The love of William’s life was to be taken from him. He would never be with James again. To think that three days ago, he had left the house with barely a glance on James’s sleeping figure, knowing as he believed they would see him at dinner! No more.

Now, William could easily imagine how he and James would be kept under guard, he at St. Micheal’s Hospital, James at Toronto General, until they were recovered from their ordeal. If they were lucky, they might see each other during the trial. It was unlikely they would ever speak again.

At least, they would both live. Assuredly. 

A deep sense of resolution filled him. He was facing the end of the happiest period of his life. There was crushing sadness, but no regret. Perhaps it was God’s will; he may have gained a kind of peace with himself and his place in the Church over the years, but at no point had he been given a Divine revelation. He could not imagine that the Heavenly Father would send him to Hell for his loving James, not with all the good he applied himself to to daily. Yet, he could not be perfectly certain. More likely, he was being tested, as he had been so often in his life. In any case, fortitude and humility were now required of him. He would face this dismal future with acceptance. James would live, and his heart was at peace.

He began to recite Our Father when the elevator activated.

The clank of the elevator gate sounded and steps approached from behind the curtain. Gillies had returned. William finished reciting the prayer, eyes closed, visualizing crossing himself. Only then, did he opened his eyes to look upon his enemy. The monster was laughing. An hour ago, the wretched giggle would have fuelled only ire. Now, he looked upon him with near equanimity. Not quite. He was at peace with his Maker, yes, but not with this sinner.

“Come to gloat, Gillies?”

Gillies seemed taken aback by Murdoch’s tone, almost confused. “Gloat? Hardly, Detective. A scientist does not gloat upon the suffering of the subjects of his experiments. He rejoices at the their responses. Aren’t we having fun?” William’s eyes went to his ailing lover, as Gillies continued, “Of course, any scientist must accept a reasonable percentage of loss among his subjects. I admit your James is fairing much more poorly than I’d anticipated. But no matter, he yet lives and it is time to make your decision.”

Murdoch’s tone remained even, restrained. “For the record, Gillies, we are cold, bruised, dehydrated and held against our will. I am not ‘having fun’. I am certain that Mr. Pendrick is suffering greatly. We never chose to participate in your experiment.”

Gillies snorted, waving the detective’s complaint with his hand. “Let’s not quibble over details. We do not have time for such trivialities.” He stopped speaking mid-breath and clicked his fingers. “With all your whining, I almost forgot!” The devil turned, rushed out behind the rubber tarp to his right, picked a large object from the floor and retuned before the sheet had fallen back into place. He was lovingly looking at the angry looking pair of angry shears in this hands. “Let’s give your beautiful lover a chance to hear your verdict. It’s only fitting, is it not?”

William’s calm wavered as Gillies approached James, grabbed his head by the hair, angling the shears toward the neck. None too gently, one of its blades was inserted between the mass of plastered cloth and James’s cheek and Gillies began to wrest and wench at the tight blind around his prisoner’s head. Gillies was heaving as James’s head was tossed and pulled with little sign of the man regaining consciousness. When the plaster finally gave way, their kidnapper was red in the face and sweating. “Oof! Finally!” he said with a smile, “I was a little too diligent there, don’t you think?” Grabbing the ragged edges with both hands, Gillies pried the material off, as it pulled at James’s skin and hair. A small sound escaped Pendrick’s mouth, barely a moan, and his head fell back. Murdoch chose to see this as a good sign. His lover would live. After all this, they would both live.

Gillies threw the lump of plaster to the floor, triumphant, and rubbed his hands together. “There! So, what will it be, Detective? It’s decision time! Will he die, or will you choose to end your world as you know it?”

Murdoch looked at his enemy squarely. He marvelled at the depth of depravity before him, so controlled and calculating, but nevertheless cruel and base. The man had schemed, tortured, killed and swindled his way in and out of prison. Had crafted an elaborate trap, had constructed a complex mechanism, all to enact his revenge. Yet, Murdoch found he was out of outrage. Gone was the fury he’d felt in the last three days. To his surprise, it had been replaced by pity. Gillies, not himself, would burn in Hell. Even as himself and James would rot in gaol for indecency, they were not the true sinners in the room. Bolstered by this certainty, peace filled him all the more.

“Now, Detective. You know you must make a choice. You cannot remain silent.” Was it worry that coloured Gillies's question, Murdoch wondered. Perhaps it would be worth dragging the conversation on. William may have accepted his fate, but he had to admit that, as an officer of the law, he should still do what little he could to hinder the evildoer’s plans. If the streets were to be filled with constables soon, it might do well to insure they could be at hand to arrest the kidnapper as well as the kidnapped.

“I will make my choice, but I still have time, do I not?”

“Yes. Yes you do have time. But time flies, Detective. Tic toc tic toc!”

The best way to drag the conversation was to participate, no matter how little Murdoch wished to speak. “You say this is an experiment, Mr. Gillies. Now, I don’t know about you, but every scientist I know forms a hypothesis in the course is his experiment, as he observes it unfolding. I wonder, what is your hypothesis, Mr. Gillies? What do you think I will choose?”

The vile creature before him then gazed at his victim with pure delight. “Oh, Detective! Yes, you finally begin to see things my way. You find me relieved. I wondered if the heroin had addled your brain!” He giggled once more. “As to your question, I must admit you have me stumped.”

Gillies began pacing, sounding like a lecturing professor. “I first thought you would choose your life over Pendick’s. You are a man of intellect, after all, and a man of duty. You love the rule of law. As such, I believed you would choose to give him death, in order to keep your freedom, all to allow you to continue pursuing me. But now, I am no longer sure.

“You love him, Detective. Even I can see that. You care for him in a way I had not anticipated. I see now that I gave you a much harder conundrum than I originally conceived. I knew my experiment was difficult for its subjects, but I expected your principles to trump your feelings. And yet, now I see that you must choose which is the crueller punishment: to kill a man, or to destroy his reputation? Which hurts more? Which will hurt him more? Ha! I’m more clever than I thought!”

Suddenly, Gillies stopped. In an instant, he sobered, then sighed. Murdoch knew there was no more delaying the fiend. The clock had reached a quarter to seven and Gillies had little to gain in continuing the conversation. “Well, it is time, Detective.” The monster took a solemn air, picked the controller box off the floor, placing it at Murdoch’s feet. With more force than necessary, he twisted the Detective’s right hand under the rubber strap, turning it palm up. William did not bother reacting to the chafing.

“I have to go. I must prepare my escape.” Gillies spoke softly, almost regretfully. “Don’t worry, my dear Detective. I’ll know what you choose even if I can’t sit with you to witness it.” Placing the control box in his victim’s hand, he gave a wistful smile: “The decision is yours. You now have fifteen minutes.”

And with a last look to James Pendrick, the criminal was gone. William heard a door closing somewhere on this floor, indicating Gillies had not immediately taken the elevator.

William looked at the box in his hand. At the cable that ran to the clock mechanism, at its metal cogs and wheels turning and clicking within it. Then he turned his eyes to his lover. So beautiful, so full of life normally. James’s head had fallen back to his chest. His breathing was as laboured as before. William wondered if James would understand his choice.

But, of course he would. James Pendrick was a champion at starting over. If a venture failed, he simple began another. They would be jailed, but one day might see them released. Surely, James would find a way to be released. With his ‘army of lawyers’, as Inspector Brackenreid put it, there was a slim chance of being exonerated, despite the film and photos. Why had he not considered this before? Of course, they might not even make it to trial for indecency. It was possible.

Yes, it was possible.

There were only a few minutes left, now. With Gillies gone and James’s ears unencumbered, William began poring all his love into words of adoration to his lover. Words he had never spoken outside of their bedroom, all the esteem, the pride he felt for James, his love unending.

One minute now. He made his choice. William thumbed the lever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering, all hospitals in Toronto in 1899 are "non-denominational", meaning that they are Protestant, but not of a particular denomination of Protestantism. There was one very small Catholic hospital, St. Michael's, founded in 1892 by the Sisters of St. Joseph, the same who ran the orphanage mentioned earlier in the story. It was highly unlikely that Murdoch would be admitted to the same hospital as Pendrick in this case, since they would be sent by the authorities, not by choice, and Murdoch being Catholic, he would have been sent there.


	7. George Crabtree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday, continued
> 
>  
> 
> [Finalized 21 July 2018]

Finally, we were off! As one, we descended on the Warehouse district, weaving our way through the back streets, keeping out of sight along the way. The Inspector expected silence and we gave it to him gladly, marching and resolute. All the boys had been called back from home, and armed with our billy clubs and all the fire power from the armoury, we were reaching our dispatch point on the corner of Adelaide Street…

... only to look across Yonge Street at the gathered lads of Station House no 3.

Right there, not thirty feet from us, I could see the frowns of our esteemed colleagues and the pinched, sour face of Inspector Giles. I know I sputtered some sort of exclamation, but Inspector Brackenreid muttered curses that would make the filthiest sailor blush. He crossed the street, gun in the right hand, walking stick in the left, stopping midway, at the exact border of Station House no 3’s and 4’s districts. I followed, and Giles walked to join us with a copper of his own, named Phillips I think. The Inspector stood right under Giles’ nose – that man was a giant! – snarling: “What are you doing here, Giles?”

“I could ask you the same. We know from a source there will be a labour demonstration in front of the Board of Trade Building starting at eight o’clock. We aim to put a stop to it.”

I was more than a little taken aback. A workers’ action? On a Sunday night, when it was dark and freezing? When no one was around? It made no sense. The Inspector laughed in disbelief and turned to me: “How much do you want to bet their source is Gillies?” He turned to his counterpart, pointing south, “Well, we are here to rescue our man Murdoch and Mr. Pendrick from the Canadian Rubber Company building over there, right across the street from the Board of Trade! You’ve been had, Giles. Your so-called labour demonstration is a diversion.”

As the Inspectors were squaring off, I could see our lads and no. 3’s men eyeing each other with increasing menace, all the more alarming in the yellow gas light. The Inspectors’ obvious preening only encouraged them, I thought. Giles drew himself impossibly higher. “And you believe your kidnapper clever enough to engineer this sort of scheme?”

Brackenreid’s chest bulged, but I interrupted: “Please, sirs! Inspector Giles, we are certain that James Gillies is holding Detective Murdoch at the Rubber Company. If he plotted to bring Station House no 3 here as well, it cannot be for good.”

Both Inspectors gave me what I decided was a grateful look. I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t to press my luck. My inspector turned to his rival. I knew then our rescue’s success would hinge on the next moments.

“Look, Giles. What do you want to do here? No matter what, Station House no 4 is storming the Rubber Company. Are you going to stand in our way? Give our presence away to Gillies so he  
can kill Murdoch and Pendrick? We could use Station House no 3’s help. What do you say?”

I prayed Giles would agree. He was staring right into the Inspector's eyes, mouth pursed in that particular pout of his. No one would ever have claimed Inspector Giles was not a smart man. He had quite the keen mind. It was a well-known fact. Station House no 3's solved cases rivaled ours in number and that's telling. But he'd been a foil to the Detective more than once since he'd taken his position, though he'd never been truly unfair. I just hoped he would realize he'd been misled, that his so-called source was a trick. I could see my Inspector's worry rise the longer Giles took to answer. But then the latter relented: "Very well. It does seem like a rather convenient coincidence that we should be called to the same location at the same time. I will give you that."

What a relief! I thanked God audibly, and I heard the Inspector thank his colleague as well. Giles turned to his copper and told him to send two men to stand on the steps of the Board of Trade and to bring everyone else across Yonge Street to meet the rest of us. It took less than a minute to regroup away from the corner, tucked along Adelaide. Brackenreid told us to gather round quick, as time was of the essence. We stood side by side, and the lads and the Number 3 men were still eyeing each other none too kindly. Tiny Malone was red in the face, not to mention Taylor. I elbowed Higgins and told him calm down. I was sorry Hodge had remained at the station to hold the fort; his calm demeanour would have helped. Still, I stayed near the Inspector in support.

After a nod from Giles, the Inspector addressed the group: "For those of you who are new, here's the plan. We know that James Gillies set up a base in the Canadian Rubber Company building. We know he's holding Detective Murdoch there and we're betting he's keeping James Pendrick close by. We've mapped the building carefully. The plan is to storm the building from all its exits, on all three sides. We're also placing men on the roof next door above the liquor store, just in case. Our goal is to arrest Gillies, but our number one priority is to save our men."

During the speech, Inspector Giles kept his eyes to the ground, nodding, I thought, in approval. After a quick gaze to the Inspector, he turned to address the group as well: "Number 3 men, you will create a perimeter around the building. Our goal is to prevent the criminal from escaping." To Brackenreid, he added, "Does this meet with your approval?"

The Inspector harrumphed, raising his walking stick, adding loudly: "Oy, you all know what to do. Gillies expects something for eight o'clock. Let's give him something right on the dot. Now, shut your sauce-boxes and take your places. Go!"

We dispersed, running to our agreed upon positions. Mr. Walker had given us the keys to the building, so we could get in with ease. I was to enter through the front entrance with the Inspector, Jackson and Perkins. Higgins, Quincy, Worseley and Malone were taking the side entrance, while Mitchell, Briscoe, Dyson and Baker were to take the loading door on the Lane. Jones went to the roof with Hogen. We were all armed, myself with a shotgun. I don't mind admitting I was willing to use it on Gillies if he so much as breathed menacingly at me.

At the first chime of eight, the doors flew open with a mighty roar. We knew Gillies was most likely on the top floor, and there was no need to hide our actions from him once we were in the building. If the fiend tried to run, it would be all the easier to catch him. The lads had their own sections to clear, so we paid them no mind and moved directly to the stairway at a run, two steps at a time, to the top, Jackson and Perkins a moment behind us. We reached the rafters in no time — yes, even the Inspector! He was too angry to be winded — and cocked our guns before crashing through the worm-eaten door.

The attic space was cold and humid. Dark and cloying. The gaslight shed yellow roads on the floor, pointing to a floor to ceiling, curtained area in the middle of the cavernous room. Gillies could have been waiting for us in there, I thought, and the Inspector agreed. He told us to go around it, the lads to the right, us two to the left. The only sound, other than our own footsteps, was a muffled rumbling from behind the curtains, which I noticed later were made of rubber. There was rustling behind a door at the back corner. There was light under the door. There, I thought, Gillies is behind that door. We rushed to it. I grabbed the handle and pulled it aside. Our criminal was indeed inside, shuffling papers. He turned as the Inspector and I took aim.  
"James Gillies! Hands where I can see them!"

The miscreant smiled defiantly, stance loose, hands low at his sides. He licked his lips, pointed pink against too white teeth. My hate for him ballooned in that instant. He was smirking as us! "It's too late for your Detective, I'm afraid," he said, laughing.

"Cuff him, Crabtree."

I gladly obeyed. Keeping my right finger on my rifle's trigger, careful to keep it pointed at Gillies, I unclipped the metal cuffs on my belt with my left hand. I knew I would have to put my firearm down to immobilize our prisoner, but I wanted to do it at the last possible second. Even if Perkins and Jackson had their own rifles pointed at the area, and the Inspector by my side was obviously aiming for the criminal's head, I remained wary. Gillies was a slippery fellow.

I took a single step toward him. Gillies tensed at once, twisted his hips, snapping his right forearm. We heard a sound, entirely like a gun click, and flash of metal appeared in the criminal's hand! He was armed! Purely on instinct, I raised my rifle as my left had grabbed its barrel and I pressed the trigger. Gillies gave a wordless cry. A pool of red exploded on the fiend's white-shirted chest, while a crimson trickle made its way down between his eyes. His expression showed complete surprise. Then his legs buckled, his knees hit the planks with a crack, before sprawling boneless on the floor. He was dead.

I admit, it was a shameful thing I did. I smiled. I smiled at another man's death. Taking his life, in that instant, gave me great satisfaction.

My shameful glee only lasted seconds. From behind the rubber curtains sounded Detective Murdoch’s pained call for help. We made quick work of wrenching the rubber from where it was attached on the ceiling, revealing a frightful sight. The Detective, sallow, desheviled, tied on a chair, facing a sickly yellowed and bloodied, unconscious James Pendrick, equally bound.

Cursing and spitting ire, the Inspector hollered for the lads to help, though they were already rushing in after the sound of my shotgun. I moved to free Mr. Pendrick, while the Inspector worked on the Detective. The latter warned : “The vat. Careful the vat above.” Indeed, above the unconscious man hung an ominous cast iron drum, the kind used to melt metal. “No. It’s filled with vitriol. It’s probably ensnared.” Jackson stopped short at my side. We pulled out our service knives and focussed on finding hidden wires.

At my back, I could hear Perkins and Higgins trying to shush the Detective. The Inspector was telling him to keep his energy, but he would not be deterred. Almost mumbling, near unconsciousness, he kept going about a projector.

“Higgins. Higgins,” he continued, “The projector. Get the film! There is no time.” Rapid footsteps scattered to the lower floors then, as we began hacking away at Mr. Pendrick remarkably sturdy bounds. The Inspector called for stretchers. Mr. Pendrick remained insensate throughout our work, his breathing shallow and obstructed by the time we severed the last of the straps. Jackson and I grabbed the man under the shoulders. On the count of three, we pushed away from under the cursed drum. It did not move.

Seconds later, we were stood near the stairs at the other end of the floor, Jackson cradling Mr. Pendrick in his arms. The Detective half lied on the crude floor, the Inspector preventing him from following us. In that moment, Mitchell and Perkins burst up the stairs with stretchers. “Let’s get these men out of here.” Jackson simply refused to relinquish his charge, while the Detective meekly allowed the lads to place him on the canvas travois. Jackson and I walked to the elevator and I aimed to operate it.

As I pulled the grill closed and flipped the rheostat lever, I sensed the world slowing down. The elevator ride was smooth and fast, only two minutes. We fixed our gazes on the unconscious blond head. His skin was waxy and thin, his lips cracked, the veins at his neck dark lines running under a blood-stained collar. Remembering yesterday’s photograph, I pulled the shirt aside, only to see that his shoulder had not been marred. The relief made me dizzy. Whoever was the sad sop whose chest appeared in the blasted picture, it was not the Detective’s friend. His shoulder was not unblemished, however: an angry puncture marked it. Though it was not a mortal wound, the pock had bled heavily and whatever tool had been used had run straight through the muscle to the man’s back. Just as we reached the ground floor, Jackson shored up his hold. He and I locked gazes, and I knew he too would have killed Gillies again had I had not shot him dead already.

The collapsable grill opened to barely controlled chaos. The Detective’s stretcher was nowhere to be seen, and the Inspector was directing men to the upper floors, securing evidence. I thought I heard something about a body, but the Inspector was interrupted by a running Higgins reporting he could not stop some fire, saying the film was lost. Ha, the projector! I guessed the film’s celluloid had caught fire. “I had to push it right out the window, sir. Couldn’t risk the building catching fire. I’m sorry.”

The Inspector noticed Jackson and I at that moment and, not responding to Higgins, he ordered us across the street. “The night guards at the Board of Trade building are letting us use the lobby as shelter. It’s heated.” Jackson barely acknowledged the order and fast marched out.

It was indeed pleasantly warn in there, especially in contrast to how nippy the night had gotten. The lights were on and the floors gleaming, ready for the next morning. The night guards had brought perhaps a dozen cushions from somewhere and Detective Murdoch was already sat in a nest of blankets. His knees were locked in place from the forced sitting. Doctor Ogden was examining him while Doctor Roberts was kneading his legs to stretch them back into place.The moment we crossed the doors, the Detective focussed his attention on Jackson and his charge.

The lad gently placed our poor chap on the cushions at the Detective's side. The latter’s eyes had a wild edge to them. Knowing what I knew, I thought it too clear the Detective wanted to take his love into his arms, and he nearly did, were it not for Doctor Roberts pulling the shacking hands away: “William, you are in shock. Look at me and take a long, deep breath. That’s it. One more.”

Doctor Ogden had moved to the unconscious man’s side, listing aloud her findings on Mr. Pendrick’s state. None were too surprising and all were heart wrenching: dehydration, multiple conclusions, a through and through puncture in the shoulder, multiple injections marks on both arms, the stiffened joints, all the results of three days of immobility and abuse at the hands of a madman. The Detective informed her they had both been heavily drugged with heroin, at which Doctor Ogden wondered if an overdose might be at issue, possibly causing the poor man’s repressed life signs and shallow breathing.

In the warm light of the lobby, it was evident how filthy both men were, covered in their own waste and blood. I raged I could no longer punish the fiend for his treatment of my friends. Jackson was huffing in anger beside me. The Detective caught my attention waving a shaky hand and I crouched immediately. He requested my notebook and pencil, stating he needed to write down pertinent details he might forget otherwise. Doctor Roberts called it an excellent idea. Taking the items, the Detective stiffly began writing in earnest, shutting the world out.

Doctor Roberts moved to my side then. He looked as shook as I felt, but his concern for our friends was overt: “It’s good he can start processing this quickly despite the trauma. He will need to sort his emotions at a later time, but we know he must discern the events intellectually first.” I nodded my agreement. The Detective’s mind was the mightiest tool. He had survived Gillies's hellish plans with his force of will and would continue on with his habitual resolve. “Nothing will change William Murdoch’s inner nature.” Roberts and I exchanged a knowing smile.

Inspector Giles had joined us by them, speaking softly but stiffly with our Inspector about the night’s events. Brackenreid was equally quiet but audibly stern in his answers. Giles expressed dismay that Higgins “had let the projector burn,” to which our Inspector snorted, stating: “Since the machine dropped at your men’s feet, Giles, I gather it’s your fault they did not stomp the fire out, don’t you think?” At which point, Giles began a pointed yet hushed rant about the dangers of celluloid fires and I ignored the rest.

Looking back at my Detective, I noticed he’d stopped writing, weakly holding my logbook, visibly preventing himself from touching Mr. Pendrick. Doctor Ogden was bandaging the man’s shoulder. I crouched to him once again and the Detective extended his hand wordlessly, his gaze shifting to Giles and Brakenreid. He was warning me, I thought, about the contents of his notes, most likely pertaining to his secrets. So I accepted the pad and pencil and stowed them in my belt. Doctor Roberts kneeled, handing him a glass of water, instructing small sips, but the Detective was staring at me still. I thought he meant the information was perhaps time sensitive. I nodded my understanding, and walked out of the lobby, past the other officers, into the night. Outside the Board of Trade, I walked under the closest street light to read the notes unobserved.

They were instructions. I was to place a call from the nearest telephone exchange – on Temperance Street, I thought – as soon as possible. I would tell specific words to whoever responded, no questions asked, whatever “Operation Exodus is ago” meant. Although exodus meant leaving, exile, did it not? In any case, once I delivered the message, I was to contact Jake again and urge him to hire a coach to reach the Pendrick Estate at no later than seven am in the coming morning. Less than eleven hours from now.

The Board of Trade doors flew open then, a mass of constables flowing out, making way for both Pendrick and the Detective on stretchers. The Doctors at their sides, they were carefully walked to the ambulance arriving that instant. A barely polite Doctor Ogden was arguing with Inspector Giles. The man was back to his regular self-righteous, infuriating self, questioning the good Doctor’s diagnosis, imploring for Doctor Roberts to support him. Doctor Ogden’s voice rang clear in the night air: “Inspector, when you graduate from medical school, I may take your opinions into account. These men need rest and warmth, which they will get at home, not in an overcrowded hospital ward.” Doctor Roberts was now climbing into the ambulance cab with his charges as Doctor Ogden blocked Giles’s path: “Doctor Roberts and I will remain at their side. Hospitalization is unnecessary.” She too entered the ambulance and called for it to leave. Inspector Giles’s entire countenance tightened, a cross between disgust and disapproval, but he ceased speaking. The ambulance left at a gallop up Yonge Street.

Brackenreid approached the taller man with the grin of a winner: “I want to thank you, Giles, for Station House no 3’s assistance. We can take care of the rest from here.” He extended his hand to his not-quite-opponant. Giles took it after an instant of hesitation.

“When will you be taking Murdoch and Pendrick's statements? I would like to witness the interviews.” After a beat, he added “If you permit it, of course.”

I knew the Inspector did not appreciate the request, but he understood as I did that an appearance of openness would be the only way to hide what must remain hidden. Being above all suspicion was necessary. Detective Murdoch’s secrets could be forced to light a hundred different ways in the course of this investigation. It seemed to me to have been Gillies’s plan all along. If we were careful, if we seemed candid and genial with the information available, maybe no one would question the facts we presented and the Detective would not leave. I knew it was wishful thinking, but I did not care.

Brackenreid’s own smile tightened, but he agreed with his colleague’s request. “Very well,” he said, “Come by that station at, say, two pm tomorrow. Murdoch should be well enough by then, since there’s no telling when Pendrick will be. Let’s review all the evidence we have on hand as well.”

I did not care for Giles’s happier response, unfortunately. “Good! Good! I’ll bring in statements from my men, describing what they saw of the moving picture before the projector caught fire. It sounded quite, shall we say, informative. Until tomorrow.”

As soon as Inspector Giles was out of earshot, Brackenreid shot the filthiest string of blasphemes I had even heard, even out of Aunt Dandelion’s mouth when a suitor crossed her.

I was struck by the thought that we were at an end, that invisible doors were closing around me. In that moment I knew my life would not be the same come morning, no matter I wished it otherwise. Higgins and Jackson had walked to my side, looking as wistful as I felt. Just then snow began to fall, slow, fat flakes fluttering down on us, melting instantly as they reached the black pavement at out feet.

I had things to do.


	8. Henry Higgins (epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new week.

The fact is, I am not actually dim-witted. I fully admit that when surrounded with geniuses like Detective Murdoch, Doctor Ogden, or even George (don’t ever tell him), I don’t compare favourably. But I am not dim either. Which means that at this very moment, as I stand silently in Inspector Brackenreid’s office doorway, I know that the gentlemen inside are all willfully avoiding the truth. Because said truth would make an already sorry situation worse.

Detective Murdoch is gone, along with Mr. Pendrick. They have left Toronto sometime in the night, despite them not being in any state to travel. They have fled for parts unknown, in order to avoid the very investigation being talked about in front of me. I am certain everyone present thinks I am oblivious. Perhaps not George. No matter: everyone in this room is talking around the fact that these two men were a couple and that James Gillies used that fact to inflict as much pain to the Detective as he could.

As I say, I am not actually dim-witted. For the past hour, Inspector Brackenreid, Doctor Ogden, Doctor Roberts, George and Inspector Boxhead are all pretending. They should be thinking that the Detective and Mr. Pendrick have been abducted again, but because they all know (even the Boxhead), that they have fled the city ahead of accusations of Indecency, these gentlemen are dancing around the truth. For that, I am grateful.

Inspector Boxhead at least pays some lip service to the facts: “What kind of games do you people play? Will there be a city-wide search for the witnesses you have misplaced?” I can see he wishes to force the truth out, but doesn’t. Something stops him from actually stating he knows the Detective is a homosexual. I don’t know what it is, but I am grateful for that too. For them as much as for Station House no. 4’s reputation. Even so, Boxhead plows on. “Where is Detective Murdoch and James Pendrick? I understood the latter was near death. How could he disappear?”

That one, I admit, is a good question. I wondered about that myself. I saw the state of the man last night. He was not well at all. There’s little doubt he was not well enough to travel, let alone flee under some disguise.

Just like the frightening person that she is, Doctor Ogden stops Boxhead from continuing. Her voice is cutting, her words pointed. “As I painfully explained last night, Inspector, Mr. Pendrick was decidedly not near death. Yes, he was in a severe state. He suffered from dehydration, minor wounds and had nearly suffered a heroin overdose. However, he was never near death! His treatment under James Gillies will leave him weak for some time and his left shoulder will require diligent exercise to ensure continued mobility, but all he needs to recover at present is warmth, rest and rehydration. He should in time make a full recovery.”

From two yards away, I can sense Doctor Ogden’s temper flaring. The disbelief written all over Boxhead’s expression is astounding. What nerve! The man has more courage than sense. Before he can continue to dig his own grave, Doctor Roberts, who’d been silent since after introductions, politely coughs to interrupt.

“When we left Pendrick Estate this morning to tend to our respective medical duties, both Detective Murdoch and Mr. Pendrick still showed signs of exhaustion and residual trauma, but were overall in good spirits, relieved their ordeal was over. Which is why we both thought appropriate – he smiles apologetically at Doctor Odgen when we says “both” – to leave them in the capable hands of their staff for the day. I know Doctor Ogden planned to return to examine them after this current business concluded.”

I can’t lie: Inspector Boxhead’s discomfiture feels good to witness. I think I’m keeping myself from smirking, but it’s not easy. But I understand the man: there is still the matter of the evidence. I helped George earlier today. We gathered everything and indexed it all, what we had already and what was found on site. The letters and files from Kingston. The affidavits from witnesses. I saw all the letters and the two photographs Gillies sent. Nothing to prove without a doubt the Detective and Mr. Pendrick are lovers, but enough to draw the conclusions Gillies wanted the world to draw them. I am beyond relieved the film was destroyed. I may have made sure of that, I admit. Not to them, never. I’ll never say. But I’m at peace with it.

It’s not as if I didn’t already know that the Detective is a lover of men. Or at least of one man. They lived together, socialized together, talked in short hand when they were together. And that business with the Judge a couple years ago? I can do basic arithmetic like most people. I did not need a moving picture of the two of them kissing to put it all together. Even if my cousin wasn’t that way too, I have eyes.

So when I found the projector last night, when I saw that the moving picture was showing the Detective and Mr. Pendrick leaning onto each other, I knew I had only an instant to stop it. Am I not ever glad to learned how to handle film! The Detective insisted I learn how to operate projectors properly two years ago. We use film enough in our investigations and celluloid is too flammable to handle willy-nilly. I could see right then that Gillies’s projector lamp was much more powerful than in a normal machine, and that its lenses had a much wider diameter. It couldn’t have projected images across the street otherwise. Since I know how to handle celluloid film so it won’t flame up, I know how to make it flame up. When I saw they were about to kiss, I turned the lamp to the maximum setting and flipped the focus to bring the film as close to the lamp as it could get, and it all went whoosh! And, to prevent the entire building from burning down, I pushed the whole contraption out the window it was projecting from. If that destroyed the machine and helped the film burn faster in the process? Well, we have a box of wet sticky ashes in the bull pen. I’m not crying about it.

Doctor Ogden is speaking again. She is calmer. Yes, that’s right, there was another body in the Rubber Company building last night. “I conducted the post-mortem this morning,’ she says, “after confirming that James Gillies was indeed deceased. The corpse found in the cast iron tub behind the clock mechanism is that of Robert Perry.”

George nods and points: “Just like you predicted, Doctor.”

“Yes,” she adds, but the doctor doesn’t seem at all pleased to have been correct. “I am uncertain, unfortunately, of the exact time of death, due to the preservative nature of the salt. On the other hand, I can confirm Perry was the one into whose shoulder Gillies carved a heart shape. I can also state Perry was still alive when Gillies marked him.”

Boxhead asks if we had the skin heart in evidence, the sick man. George hands him the photograph instead. Boxhead greens at the sight, as he should. Doctor Roberts speaks up then, explaining why Perry was killed in the first place, mostly for Boxhead’s benefit.

“The good doctor’s psychological analysis was quite correct. James Gillies was a criminal genius as well as a sequential killer. He was as creative as he was brilliant, as well as devious, which gave him the unique ability to devise complex schemes for the dual purposes of his own entertainment and for exacting revenge. All his ample creative energies being reserved for organizing his schemes, however, left him with little imagination in his choice of victims. For all his intellect, he was underneath little more than a hurt animal. He was simply and basically a vindictive man. His very first murder, he justified by a perceived slight committed onto him by Professor Bennett. Then his own father for failing to win him his freedom, and Robert Perry for disloyalty. And finally Detective Murdoch for having bested him.” This is the most troubling of all, as personal it was. “In his choice of victims, Gillies was therefore utterly predictable. If there are other victims, you will find they were killed because they posed a foil to his plans, and therefore were dispensed of in an expedient manner. No emotions involved. I suspect, however, Gillies avoided killing individuals he did not consider his enemies, if at all possible, in order to keep the lowest profile he could.”

George then asks for some clarification on the man’s mental state, about how he became such a fiend, but I stop listening. What I want to know is where the rest of the evidence is. I’m in no place to ask, so I won’t, but I know the lads scoured the Canadian Rubber Company building last night and again this morning. There was not enough blood anywhere in there that could account for Perry’s and Gillies senior’s murders. Which means we still don’t know where – what’s the word the Detective would use – where the “primary crime scene” is. Because I want to find the negatives. All the photographs and the moving picture? They have negatives. Somewhere. And I want to find them, because I need to destroy them.

As long as the negatives exist, there is material proof that the Detective and Mr. Pendrick are lovers. It is that proof which forced them to leave Toronto. Not the rumours I am not spreading. Not the deductions people like Inspector Giles seem content not to be making. If there is no longer any poof out there, they can remain free. Otherwise, they will never return. Therefore, I need to find those negatives.

However, I fear we won’t be looking for the negatives, because no one is admitting the negatives exist. I don’t know, I can’t guess what’s keeping Boxhead from accusing us of hiding evidence or not trying hard enough to find it. This man has the most meticulous mind aside Detective Murdoch and if I’m aware of all of this, he should be. Locking gaze with George, I seems I’m not the only one wondering what game Boxhead is playing. What game we are all playing. Because, right here and now, in this office, everyone probably knows the secret that prevents all of us from properly investigating this case and closing it. The Inspector, the doctors, George and I and, yes, even Giles. Somehow he knows too. We all know and we are choosing to keep silent today. It is a relief. It’s a mystery.

I think, once we are done here, I’ll suggest George and I begin boxing up Detective Murdoch's office. I think we should do it tomorrow. He’s not coming back, at least not soon. We’ll be getting a new Detective, hopefully not Slorach. In any case, we need to box things and bring them to Pendrick Estate for storage. That’s where they belong.

The meeting is concluding now. Boxhead leaves in a huff. Brackenreid offers a drink to the doctors.

And George walks up to me. He looks near tears: “I hate sad endings, Henry. There is no hope in them. That’s why I only ever write happy ending. In my novels.” He looks away, “I wanted a good ending for this one.”

I nod. It’s all I can do. Even if I agree they had deserved a happy ending, what could I say. Still, they are safe, for now, so maybe they’ll get one some day. George clasps my shoulder and heads for the Detective’s office. Just like that, just like in one of his books, he closes the door behind him, like when he ends a chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! Don't hate me! I know! Their story does not end here. It will go on. Just not in Toronto. There will be other parts. I promise. You'll see. It gets better. Already working on it!

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a juggling act between trying to be canon compliant as much as possible, being compliant to CameoSF's marvellous series, and sticking to actual historical facts about 1899-1900 Toronto. As a historian and Canadianist, I know historical Toronto extremely well and I have stuck to real Toronto everywhere allowable by either canon or CameoSF's works.
> 
> All constables mentioned in the story are named in the show. All streets and buildings, as well as all named non-show characters are historical. They actually existed. Addresses are accurate for 1899-1900 Toronto. I checked. Yes, I'm anal that way ;)


End file.
